


Southern Discomfort: Possessed

by KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic



Series: Southern Discomfort [2]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, Animal Sacrifice, Blow Jobs, Daryl is still awkward, Exorcisms, Haunted Houses, Hoodoo, Horror, M/M, Metric ton on angst, Minor Character Death, Moonshiners/Bootleggers, More Pining, Rick is still a nosy shit, Suspense, accents very prominent, all the bad language, and only knows what boundaries are because of the police academy, being 20-something and all the terrible things life has to offer at that age, break-up aftermath, but more angry, dumb boys in love do dumb things, evil spirits, for yall's safety of course, ghostly molestation, handjobs, more gang activity, more inaccurate portrayals of rituals, moving the rating up just in case, non-con themes/mentions, not as slow a burn as last time, paranormal/supernatural, sex will happen later but only with Daryl, these boys are morons, voodou
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-12 04:05:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 119,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7919863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic/pseuds/KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Part 2 of 3)</p><p>Rick had never planned on stepping foot in White Oak, Georgia ever again. But he is forced to return after a family tragedy occurs, and as soon as he finds himself back among the sprawling swamps he is once again faced with something all too familiar. </p><p>Something dark and sinister has taken root in his grandparents’ plantation house, and the only person he knows who can help him – is Daryl.</p><p>--</p><p><b>Temporary Hiatus:</b> Maternity Leave</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What Must Be Done

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back everyone, today's the day and I'm the most complicated mess of excited and nervous. But I hope you all are as excited as I am to get back into the swamp and see what I have in store for these boys. The next chapter begins now and I know you all don't want to listen to me ramble about it so we're just going to jump on in. 
> 
> My plan (I hope) is to post every two weeks, I have a few chapters done already but this will let me pace everything as I continue to write and keep steady updates going instead of the long waits we had before. This chapter had an army behind it to make it possible so I have to thank Starfire_Wildheart, MaroonCamaro, and FandomLifeTookMyHandAndSaidRUN for being amazing and helping me out when I was panicking and stressing out. Thank you lovelies <3 especially Maroon for being my rock and soundboard and helping me through the tough spots, this wouldn't be what it is without you.
> 
> Alright folks, let's get this show on the road. I hope you all enjoy it :)

\--

\--

“Speak the truth, even if your voice shakes”

\--

\--

Six years had passed, and still every time thunder rolled dark and hungry in the Kentucky sky something was awakened deep inside of Rick Grimes. It was warm and electric, sinister and thrilling, nostalgic and dreadful in a way that reminded him of damp and heat and the suffocating sweet-rot air between the trees in the South Georgia swamp. A faint trace of something that use to feel like home, and was now a distant memory that he kept caged in chest and only looked back on when he needed to feel something. Anything. To remember what living used to feel like.

He grew to hate thunderstorms.

He and Shane had graduated from the Atlanta Police Academy years ago, joining the summer program straight out of high school, and Rick devoted every ounce of strength he had left to something that was structured and controlled and _dangerous_ in a way that he could direct and arrange to suit his needs. If it hadn’t been for the classes, the 5 am drills, the bone-aching exhaustion that the recruits were reduced to day after tiring day in the Georgia sun – and Shane’s diligent sentry beside him – the numbness might have consumed him those first few months. The dead thing that miraculously still beat in his chest, and had painstakingly learned how to do so without hurting over the years, would have killed him from the pain and emptiness left behind. It’s hard to start over when you learn everything you’ve ever known has been a lie, but Rick did it – he had never been one to give up, even when all hope had been ripped from him, and he hadn’t planned on starting that summer.

Daryl Dixon didn’t get to take that from him too.

His bitter rage didn’t make the years easier, especially when he knew he couldn’t unleash it on the people he held close, like his mother or his grandparents or Shane, but it helped him power through the tough spots. When his smile was harder to hold on to, when he woke up in the morning from dreams of scarred tan skin and pale blue eyes and shy barely there smiles, when the ache in his chest was too hard to breathe past and his eyes burned wet and hot – when he remembered what was lost. The most he could do was push it down, deep as he could, kept it dark and buried so far away from what his days had turned into that eventually he started to forget it was there at all. He could focus on his drills, the tasks at hand and remembering protocols, being aware of absolutely everything around him as well as keeping an eye on his partner and watching his back too. And once he and Shane were picked up by the King County Sheriff’s department back home in Kentucky, every horrible meticulous thing that they had to do being the rookies on the force filled up their days as well. So all Rick had to dread were the nights when he was alone with his thoughts.

Shane understood, and Rick could never repay the man for his patience and loyalty as Rick learned to be himself again. He had forfeited his summer plans without a second thought and joined Rick on orientation day at the academy with a bright excited smile and a wildness in his eyes. When they graduated he hadn’t even suggested any Police Forces or Sheriff’s Departments in Georgia at all, just drove Rick home keeping his mind occupied with all the stupid shit they had done over their two years in the academy, and had ended up being the one to suggest his home county as employment. That way Rick could still stay near his mother, and Shane could get the fuck out of Georgia. His friend had been itching to get out of White Oak and away from the Walsh family estates practically the entire time Rick had known him. So it wasn’t too much of a stretch, and was almost believable when he suggested it. Shane never once mentioned the name of the person who destroyed Rick’s life, didn’t even speak of the place he himself had called home, only ever talking about the future and what it could hold for them. An apartment near Rick’s mom, but far enough away she couldn’t hear about Shane picking up every small town girl in 10 miles, and getting their own squad car and patrol – _running this damn town, man, this damn COUNTY, we’re gonna live like kings Ricky! The kings of King County, ha!_

And they had, Rick and Shane, they spent years earning their stripes and soon had a routine set up. They only lived together all of a year before Rick discovered he really couldn’t live with his best friend _and_ work with him all day, and ended up finding his own place closer to the community college. Where he had started taking classes at night, just for the hell of it and to keep his frantic mind occupied. His mother was really happy to hear about it. But he picked Shane up before each shift, they talked and laughed and shot the shit the whole way to the station, loaded up and did their patrols, filed paperwork and spent a few nights a week at the bar – and while Shane picked up chicks Rick went to night classes and was slowly working towards a Bachelor’s degree at a snail’s pace.

Rick visited his Mother at the hospital every chance he could, when he and Shane were there in full uniform during their shifts if their calls ever led them there, or just taking her dinner when he had spare time. He called his grandparents once a week, his Grandmother chatting his ear off every time about this or that around the estate and gossip in town, and on how his Grandpappy’s steadily declining health was going – though she always had hope when they spoke. As if his genetic disease could be swatted away like a mosquito and he’d bounce back, one day.

Soon Rick had friends, his loved ones close, a life, a planned out week that was patterned to the week after that, and the week after that. Four weeks in a row of his routine made a month, four months and then the weather changed, four seasons made a year – and time passed. With or without him it would’ve passed anyway, if Rick had learned anything in his time with Daryl Dixon it was that life will always keep moving, things were born and grew and died and decayed all in the blink of an eye. The wind blew, the rain fell, the sun rose in the East and traveled across the sky before disappearing beyond the Western horizon, only to be followed by the moon and the stars. The world kept moving, so he might as well do the same. The scars on his heart healed with time, and though there was always something heavy and dead settled there like a weight tied to his chest, Rick soon learned to carry it and go on despite what was obviously missing. Hell, he even managed to smile at the girl in his Anthropology class that had been trying to get his attention for months, she was tall and willowy and shined soft like the sun in spring – and was everything the opposite of the intense heat he had left behind in White Oak. There was hope. For once in his life since he’d lain in the back of a truck bed under the Georgia sky and dreamed about what his future could hold, Rick Grimes had started to feel something resembling a chance at a life that didn’t hurt anymore. He and Shane weren’t rookies any longer, he had an apartment and a decent credit report, 6 college credits left to graduate, and a group of people surrounding him that he could allow himself to trust.

His life was looking up, finally.

And then his Grandpappy died.

\--

“Rick you have to,” his Mother pleaded, voice straining and choked up from crying probably, and though Rick knew she was right it didn’t keep him from wanting so badly to just hang up the phone. “Ya know he wouldn’t have wanted to be buried anywhere else, yer Grandmother is going to be keeping everything at home – you can’t just not say goodbye.”

“Mom,” Rick ground out, hating himself and everything about the damn conversation, but mostly hating the blooming ache in his chest that was resonating hurt and pain and mourning so deep and profound that it was crushing. “Don’t – ya can’t ask me to, don’t make me do this.” He couldn’t go back. He wasn’t ready. It had been years but he just couldn’t go back, he had never wanted to step foot in White Oak, Georgia ever again – every nook and cranny of that damn hick town seared into his mind with memories both painful and wonderful and it would kill him to see them. Remember everything vividly, he couldn’t even imagine driving down the fucking highway with the swamps bracketing either side, calling to him and threatening to draw him back in. He could barely breathe thinking about it.

His Grandpappy passing had been a long time coming, the past year being particularly hard on him and Rick’s Grandmother, but they had stayed at home. She cared for him out of the old estate rooms, in a place he had been born into, grew up in, married the love of his life and raised a child in, and a grandchild. There was nowhere else he would have wanted to die, to remain for the rest of his life and after, to be buried beside his only son and Rick’s father. Rick should respect that, knew he was going to cave in to his Mother’s request and return to say a final farewell, to support his Grandmother – but that didn’t mean he would do so readily. White Oak wasn’t home to him, it was a painful reminder at best, and he wouldn’t be staying a minute longer than he had to if he had any say at all.

“I know it’s hard Ricky,” his Mother said with so much _empathy_ in her voice that it made Rick want to be sick, “but I also know yer going.” Rick nodded, forgetting she couldn’t see him, but his Mother knew him well enough anyway. “We can drive down together, if ya want?”

“No,” Rick said quietly, drained, resigned. “I can’t – I won’t be down there ‘til right before the funeral. What day is it?” His Mother never saw him break down because of the quiet, redneck boy she had been so fond of. Just what was left behind after her son drowned himself in the academy and school and work and anything else he possibly could. Rick wasn’t going to give her the opportunity to witness round two of Rick’s heart shattering into pieces.

“Saturday, the wake will be Friday,” his Mother answered just as quietly. “Can you be there Friday? She’ll want ya to be there.”

“Yeah, I can do that,” Rick muttered, hand rubbing at the bridge of his nose and trying to quell the headache that was beginning to throb in time with his painful heartbeat. “I… I’ll come down Thursday night, late. I’ll leave that morning.” That way it would be dark when he got there, so he wouldn’t have to recognize anything beyond vague shapes and street signs. Now that the panic had subsided, and Rick knew he was doing this, his rational mind started to pre-arrange the whole trip. Make it as painless as possible, he was going for his Grandpappy’s funeral – not to mourn the tattered memories of Daryl Dixon. This was about his Grandpappy, not Rick, and certainly not Daryl. He was a fucking grown up, and Rick could deal with this like the responsible man he’d become. He could.

“Thank you,” his Mother answered too gratefully, and Rick felt horrible for kicking up a fuss at first. Like a petulant child that didn’t want to go to school.

“’m sorry Mom,” Rick forced himself to say. “You shouldn’ have ta walk on egg shells around me, I’m fine. I’ll be there, I promise.” His voice ended strong, and that helped him drop his hand from his face and stand a little taller. He’d moved on, he told himself every morning when he woke up that he’d moved on, it was time to prove to himself and everyone else that he had.

Rick could return to White Oak, Georgia without falling apart.

He had his rage to hold on to for that.

\--

The summer sun burned bright and red on the horizon, watching as Rick sped down the highway through the sprawling swamps and Coastal Plain of Southern Georgia. It was all farm land and heat waves with the beginnings of the damp humidity beginning to surface the further he drove, air conditioning on full blast and the windows rolled up to counter everything flying by outside. The smell of trees and moss and mud, the thick reminders of the rain that was ready to fall clinging to the hot air, the choruses of crickets and mosquitoes and cicadas calling from the depths of the trees so loud Rick could almost hear it through the music that he was playing too loudly.

Doing his best to drown out anything that vaguely felt too much like home, though it was a wasted effort. Rick had drove too fast, dodged the traffic jams in Atlanta, and ended up turning onto the White Oak exit ramp before the sun had fully set. A small, petty part of himself wanted to get there after dark so he wouldn’t be able to recognize much with just his headlights illuminating everything – but apparently another part of himself wouldn’t allow him to go take a long dinner, or drive just a little slower, and wanted to see the town that he had basically grown up in.

It shouldn’t have surprised him that it hadn’t changed one bit.

Every turn, every road, every house, even Main Street looked the _exact_ same as the day he had left it, tinted pink and orange in the dying light. No one would recognize him in his car, after all it was _his_ car and not his Grandmother’s old four-door, which had died a peaceful death in his apartment parking lot one particular hot day two summers before. So he cruised through the streets without any fanfare, and then turned on to the gravel backroads and soaked in the surrounding trees, the swamps that sprawled up onto the gravel expanses and sometimes under them on cement bridges. It was like something out of a dream, a distant memory that was so nostalgic it tugged at his chest until he couldn’t breathe – until it was so suffocating inside his small car that Rick finally caved, and rolled down the windows.

Sound rushed in like a levee breaking. The thick humid air with the smells of Spanish moss and mud and a freshness that was combined from rot and growing plants and _life_ filled the air and Rick’s lungs. So much he couldn’t help but breathe deep, letting out a sigh that emptied him of all the stress and worry that had been weighing so heavily the past few days. It was like it had refreshed his soul. The white-noise of cicadas and mosquitoes and the wind flying by his open window drowned out his radio, and for a moment Rick forgot why he wanted to block everything out. A tidal wave of memories and sensations that were so familiar and so much like coming home he even felt his eyes start to burn and blur around the edges, though he swallowed hard and instead took another deep breath, and turned on to the same plantation road that he and Shane had wiped out on so many times years and years ago because they took their bikes too fast. The crunch of gravel under his tires having the same dips and fucking potholes they had since he was 10 years old because no one ever fixed them, the same large white-painted Southern houses glowing like lanterns far up their drives, among the tall dark trees in the fading evening light.

Before he had even recognized it, he was turning into his grandparent’s winding drive, coasting along the turns of the property, and not having once regretted the memories that were hitting him sporadically. Only surfacing when he glanced away from the road and spotted something that shouldn’t have had significance at all, but it was still that tree that he and Daryl had ducked under during the storm before racing across to the mud room, his grandpappy’s shed that had the witches marks carved into them for protection, the treeline he had stared at when he was so small he could barely remember. The same treeline he had disappeared behind time and time again as he darted through the swamp, on his way to wherever the day was taking him. One area of the treeline in particular, that should have had a path worn in it with how many times he used it, because not a mile through the swamp in that direction was the Dixon house. He used to know the woods like the back of his hand, though Rick knew that now the swamp had probably morphed and changed in the years he’d been gone – and if he were to go in there again, he would for sure get lost in a matter of minutes. Because in White Oak, Georgia – even the smallest of things never changed.

The sky was a bruised watercolor blend of dark purples and blues when he pulled up to his grandparent’s house, the lightning bugs lighting up the dark property in the tall grass and the cicadas in the trees as loud as police sirens. The plantation house still sat proud and tall, a little wear and tear around the edges form the Georgia heat and humidity, but even without the upkeep it would outlive them all. Stepping out of the car was just as earth-shattering as opening the car windows, Rick felt 15 years old again – hopping out of his Mom’s maroon mini-van and immediately the feeling of home washed over him. It was like a small part of him he hadn’t even known was missing had just slid back into place, and a tranquility took hold of him that he hadn’t felt in years. Looking around the property, same as it was when he drove away six years ago, Rick couldn’t help but smile at every familiar nook and cranny. Nothing had changed.

He had barely gotten to his trunk to grab his duffle-bag with ‘King County SHERIFF Department’ embroidered on the side before the front doors burst open and two small children were racing out to greet him, one much taller and faster than the other, followed by his Mother.

“You made it!” his Mother said so loudly the whole street must have heard, and the taller girl laughed in excited delight as she stopped right by Rick’s open trunk, grinning so wide her smile was all teeth, and her short brown bob a mess from running around the property was Rick’s guess. He had been the same at her age, the girl looking about ten or eleven years old. The smaller girl that couldn’t have been more than 2 or 3 ran up to them also and didn’t stop until she latched onto her sister’s leg, long white-blonde hair pulled back in pigtails and hiding her big blue eyes as she buried her face into the other girl’s side. It took Rick a minute to recognize them.

“Nah,” he grinned at the older girl, blue eyes lighting up, “you can’t be.” The little girl giggled at his antics. “You’re not Maggie Greene, she was only this high last I saw her,” he motioned about two feet off the ground, and then swung his Sheriff's bag over his shoulder.

“’Course I am!” Maggie told him. “I grew up, an’ so did you! You’re a grown up now and everythin’,” she gave him a side eye and a grin that had far too much sass for someone who wasn’t even a teenager yet.

“Let ‘em think that,” Rick winked at her. “I’m still a big kid and you know it. And who’s this?” he titled his head to the side to get a better look at the small girl who had peeked at him from where she was still hiding, only to squeek and hide her face again. Maggie picked her up off the ground, setting her easy on her hip like she did it all the time, and grinned proudly.

“This is Beth, say hi ta Rick,” she demanded of the little girl, who waved shyly and curled inwards as if to make herself even smaller.

“Well hi Beth,” Rick smiled sweetly at her, bending down a little to get to her level. “How old are ya?” The small girl held up two fingers and Rick couldn’t help smiling so wide his teeth showed. “Two? Wow you’re getting big, yer sister won’ be able ta hold ya like that much longer.”

“Hey I’m strong!” Maggie scowled at him. “I’ll always be able to pick her up, she ain’t that heavy anyways.”

Rick held up his hands placating, “if you say so, you’ll have ta prove it to me later though.”

“I will!” Maggie smirked triumphantly, but couldn’t say anymore because Rick’s Mom had pulled him into a bone-crushing hug while rocking side to side happily.

“I can’t believe ya made it before supper!” she said joyfully, finally pulling back and wearing a matching grin. “We got the Greenes and their girls over for the evening, Annette is with your Grandmother out in the back garden if ya want to say hi real quick.” She ushered them all inside, and Rick couldn’t help but see how relaxed his Mom was – she always seemed more at home on the property, and with the Greene girls running around she looked ten years younger. She would be good with grandkids, if he ever had any children on his own, his Mother was always happier when surrounded by family. And he’d give the world to make her as happy as she was right then, he hadn’t seen her like that in years.

But then again, the old plantation house would always be their home. More so than Kentucky ever was.

The old steps sounded the same as his boots clinked against the wood and cement, the porch still creaked in the same spots, and Rick’s hand still went to that spot on the door frame where the all-seeing-eye was carved into the wooden molding. Fingers tracing the witch’s mark as he stepped through the threshold, and every inch of him eased into a blissful state of congenial comfort – as if sinking into a warm bath after a long day. A very, _very_ long day. The house even _smelled_ the same. The grand entry way, which should have felt haunting and at least given him a residual shudder of fear from what had happened there years ago, just felt warm and bright with the giant chandelier glowing yellow and casting patterns on the walls. Rick dropped his stuff at the bottom of the staircase, and was all but dragged by the hand by an excited Maggie Greene towards the kitchen.

Doc Greene stood up from peeling potatoes and shook his hand, and Rick couldn’t help but notice he was happily sober as well. He didn’t say anything about it or ask – but he had a good guess that it was because of the two little girls that the man had stopped drinking. He knew Miss Josephine had died from cancer years ago, and Rick had met his second wife Annette briefly as a teenager, thought she hadn’t been his wife at the time, as well as Annette’s son Sean from her first marriage. But Beth was a new addition, and Doc Greene (who insisted now that Rick call him Hershel) had still been struggling with alcohol withdrawal and a very angry Maggie back then. But everyone looked to be adjusting well, even though the preteen girl still seemed a little stand-offish towards her father, despite the leagues of changes he had made in the six years Rick had been gone. And Rick was proud of him, happy for him, smiled and made quick small talk before his Mother politely interrupted them so Rick could step away and go visit his grandmother out back. It was what they were all there for, after all.

The garden started on a patio, that opened up into the backyard and sprawled all the way to the swamp – a vast array of stone walkways that winded in and around trees and a fountain that hadn’t really run in a decade or so, and the walkway itself was lightly covered with grass as it sprouted between the rust-red bricks. The whole area was covered in plants: rose bushes, blackberry bushes, tall trees and short ones that just never got to the height they needed, wildflowers and various others his Grandmother had planted throughout the lifetime she had spent living there. As well as her boxed in plants and herbs, grown closer to the house and harvested for food and other various activities, as Rick had learned over the years. But she took diligent care of everything – in that she made sure everything grew and was looked after, but she let the plants grow where they wanted. It looked wild and ethereal, and there was a sense of peace that took over the senses as soon as you stepped out onto the patio and smelled the lavender and sage, carried on the fresh breeze hinted with the swamp that always blew towards the house for some reason. Rick never blamed his grandmother for spending all of her time out there, it was her domain.

Annette and his grandmother were sitting on the stone edge of the fountain, talking quietly to each other, not noticing him as he walked up. His grandmother looked good, for what it was worth, aged a little bit and maybe a little tired, but she was smiling and had that little glint in her eyes as she told Annette something that made her bark in laughter and blush a little. Rick decided he didn’t want to know.

“Sorry to interrupt, ladies,” Rick said cheekily, trying to hide his grin that probably came off as a smirk as the two woman turned to him. And his Grandmother lit up like the Georgia sun on the horizon.

“Ricky!” she all but shrieked in happiness, getting to her feet and Rick meeting her halfway as she engulfed him in a hug. “Where hav’ you been! It’s been so _long_. Getting’ into trouble ‘s my guess.”

“Always,” Rick told her, hugging her back and holding on probably a moment too long. It was hard not to, it had been six years since he had last seen her.

“Living with that Walsh boy I have no doubt,” his Grandmother half-scolded him, holding onto his arms when he pulled back so she could get a good look at him. Which was the last thing Rick wanted in that moment; the short, round woman had intuition like no other, and could always see right through people.

“I moved out four years ago Gan’ma,” Rick rolled his eyes, pretending he was fine, trying to hide everything that was raging inside him because the emotions were so much more than he thought he’d feel. He’d forgotten what _home_ felt like, until his grandmother had hugged him like that, and it was almost too much.

“Well good,” his Grandmother drawled, “that boy is so rowdy. Can’t believe they gave him a gun.”

“I keep him out of trouble,” Rick told her with a small smile.

Her bright blue eyes were watching him carefully, as if looking past the layers of skin and short cropped dark curls and could see how much just being there had been tearing him up and mending him all at the same time, reshaping his insides until he was just a mess that was somehow still standing and talking like a normal human being. She rubbed his arms, still holding on and not letting him go, “I know it was hard, comin’ back here, but it’s good for’ya. I can see that.” She nodded at him and Rick nodded back, swallowing hard – not even aware that Annette had slipped past them and went into the house so they could have privacy out in the late evening darkness.

“Feel like my insides were ripped out,” Rick laughed honestly, and ended up kinda choking on it. Stamping down on that emotion that was bubbling up his throat and burning behind his eyes, boiling beneath his skin and threatening to burst out of him at the seams.

“It’s gotta, an’ you gotta let it. Scoop out all tha’ bad gunk weighing ya down so you can start new,” she told him sternly, making sure Rick’s blue eyes were trained on hers. “So you stop that, righ’ now. Don’ you bury that shit deep, it’s gonna kill ya if ya do. Let it out, let the swamp take it back, need to make room for that fresh Georgia air. Do tha’ – and I promise ye’ll feel better ‘n the morning.” Rick nodded, only lightly startled when his grandmother had cursed at him, feeling more like a man in that moment than anything in the last six years had. And he had shot at people, injured some, pulled bleeding people from burning cars as they cried, spoken to grieving mothers after accidents or robberies. All that horror and tragedy, and his Grandmother speaking to him like a man had finally set it all in place that he wasn’t a kid anymore. He took every word for what it was worth. His grandmother always seemed to know everything anyway, so he’d be an idiot not to. “That an’ a shot of whiskey, y’ll feel right as rain. Take a walk, see what happens.” She patted him on the arm in conclusion to her sermon, and then slowly started to make her way towards the house. “Supper in an hour, wash yer face before ya come back in!” She called to him, and left Rick out in on the dark patio with only the sounds of the leaves in the breeze and the cicadas surrounding him.

Nothing left to do then but do as he was told.

Rick walked around the property twice, getting familiar with the heavy humid air and the symphony of life surrounding him – though he didn’t break down like his grandmother probably thought he was going to, or like he thought he would, to be honest – but he had conditioned himself enough to let the memories and reminiscing come to him slowly and in their own turns. Like waves lapping on a beach. Took the sorrow and the hurt and anger he wanted to feel, let himself feel it, and discovered that not only did he not cry but he also didn’t punch anything. The emotions rage and roared, blocked out everything in bits and pieces, but they didn’t destroy him. He still didn’t feel like he’d moved on, that was clear now with how much his chest still hurt, but maybe he really had learned to live with it. And that had to be the beginning of something.

He returned to the mud-room, which held so many memories it lodged in his throat again, the most prominent being when Daryl was standing there soaking wet and gorgeous as a teenager. Rick kicked off his boots, and instead of stamping out the memory like he had been for days, he held on to it and found that he didn’t feel angry remembering it,  just sad in a bittersweet way – because it had been a happy moment, back when it happened. There was still some part of him that remembered that.

And then the door slammed shut behind him.

Rick whipped around to stare at it, holding his breath. Not even the loose glass panes in the little window rattled, no breeze blew against the rickety hinges, it was as still as the grave outside. Slowly Rick smiled, wide and astonished, and something elated filled his chest to replace the sorrowful memory.

“…Hello to you, too,” he told the empty room, appeasing whatever was there and needed to be recognized, still grinning as he turned away once more and entered the kitchen to help with supper.

\--

The wake was the next day, and basically the whole county showed up.

It ended up being a party more than a wake, which was honestly probably how his grandpappy would have wanted it. He had been a quiet man, especially after the Huntington’s got to the later stages and he was confined to the house, but he had been a part of the community for a long time before that – born and raised there, went to war as a young man, and came back only to join the county sheriff’s department just like Rick had decades later. Many people were very happy to hear that was his occupation, including his grandpappy’s old station buddies and co-workers across the county. He was always well-liked, had been fair and kind, and worked until he physically couldn’t any longer. His old partner had told Rick a story that afternoon about when his grandpappy had first been diagnosed and told his life expectancy, how he had embraced it instead of mourning it. Had basically smiled at the doctor and said “bring it on”, though Rick doubted he had used those words exactly.

Though the old man had beat that doctor’s timeline by nearly ten years, so maybe he had.

The wake had over-flowed after a while, spilled out of the large house and onto the lawns. There was food and beer and kids running around, chatter and laughter among the tears, one passing by would think it was a summer barbeque and not a wake except that most were wearing black. Even a lot of the shop owners had showed up, saying they shut down early because all of their patrons were currently on the Grimes estate, so they came to pay their respects as well – and maybe have a beer and some burgers.

But that just made it even more apparent who _wasn’t_ there.

Shane showed up with his parents about mid-afternoon, gave Rick the tightest hug and patted his back so hard it overtook the hollow feeling in his chest, echoed against his bones. Said “Sorry brother,” got him a beer, and pulled his long-time partner away from the condolences and curious gossipers that wanted to know all about his life in Kentucky – now that Rick Grimes had returned to White Oak, Georgia. He couldn’t even imagine the stories they must have told about him, when he never came back that final summer after high school. They ended up chatting with a few other station buddies of Rick’s grandpappy’s, and then circled the grounds while drinking from their long-neck bottles and enjoying the buzz of life that had filled the estate.

“Ya doin’ alright?” Shane finally asked when they passed his grandpappy’s old shed for the second time, Rick’s eyes always zeroing in on the carved marks that still resided there – as heavy and pronounced as burn marks against the chipped white paint. Rick nodded instead of answering, taking another swig from his bottle and once again soaking in his surroundings. The Georgia sun, the light breeze, the smell and sounds of the swamp to their right and the hum of constant talking coming from the party across the lawns to their left. Sometimes the shrieks of children mixing in with the bugs and the leaves moving in the trees and faint roar of passing cars. So much was moving, going on around them, and Rick couldn’t help but feel like a by-stander to it all. Observing something that looked and felt like it was familiar, that it should still be a part of him, and somewhere along the way of trying to move on from leaving his home behind he had somehow succeeded. And never even knew it.

“Not as bad as I thought it’d be,” Rick finally spoke in the quiet afternoon, edging the treeline and looking past the bordering trunks to the trails laid within, twisting and so enticing to follow with his eyes. Knowing already what the soft swamp floor would feel like beneath his boots, the humidity between the trees and beneath the canopy of vines and leaves would feel like against his skin, how the air would taste in his lungs. “Doesn’ hurt like I though’ it would.”

“It’s home,” Shane muttered quietly, distantly – as if thinking about his own corner of White Oak, and Rick was reminded that not only had he not been home in a long time, but neither had Shane. Sure he actually visited his family, unlike Rick, but it had to have been at least a year since he’d been this far South of Atlanta. Possibly two. “Sticks to yer shoes, keeps ya rooted, an’ at first ya can’t remember why ya ever wanted to leave.”

“Shane, you hate White Oak,” Rick told him, it wasn’t something to be taken lightly either. Shane truly despised the town and everything it wanted him to be.

“Yeah,” Shane drawled, low and long, a sigh following the word as he fiddled with his now empty beer bottle. Dark eyes scanning the horizon and probably picking people out in the crowd that were the main reason he hated coming back to the small backwoods town. “But it’s home, always will be. One place on Earth I can always come back to, tha’ I know better than anythin’. Just steppin’ outta my truck felt like comin’ home.”  He was quiet for another moment, and Rick knew the feeling Shane had been talking about.

“You don’t miss the people, Shane. You hate it here, just like I do,” Rick murmured into the lip of his bottle before downing the last of it. “You missed the swamp. An’ those damn frogs.” Shane’s mouth quirked into a smile, pulling at one side but lightening the dark look that had settled on his face. “An’ the watering hole, the bonfires - ”

“The whiskey.”

“Shooting at cans on the fenceline.”

“Dragging your ass out of bed during the summer to run around with me and cruise for girls.”

“Well, you cruised for girls. I was more a wingman until you ditched me.”

“Took them deep out in the swamp,” Shane near smirked at the memories Rick probably knew too much about, and in too much detail to hear repeat performances. “Parked the truck, made out in the back, they loved that shit under the stars.”

He might of hummed in agreement, but Rick’s blood turned to ice in his veins, and he tried to take another pull from his bottle – forgetting it was empty – anything to distract him from the waves of memories that crashed into him at the statements. Images of making out, and doing various _other things_ with Daryl Dixon in the back of Merle’s pickup truck, late into the night and far out in the woods where no one could find them. Where Daryl got to be himself, let go, and not worry about getting caught with his lips seared to Rick’s neck as he sucked on him like a leech. Set his skin on fire with his touch.

“Shit, man I’m sorry.” Shane’s words broke through his daze, where he had been staring off numbly, just letting the assault of memories and sensations and emotions drown him until he could barely breathe. “I know y’all did shit like that too, didn’t mean ta bring it up.”

“Everything’s bringing shit up,” Rick said quietly, trying to be reassuring and failing pretty badly. “If it ain’t that it’ll be somethang else, don’t sweat it. I’ll get over it.”

“Yeah, you keep saying that,” Shane couldn’t help but point out, just as quiet.

“And one day it’ll be true,” Rick said as carelessly as he could, now not looking at anything but the empty bottle in his hands. He felt Shane staring at him, but he refused to return the look until he could swallow past the lump in his throat and hold on to some form of resolve and believe what he was saying. “Who says that day ain’t today?” Shane had no pity in his stare, just nodded and tried to tilt his mouth into a smile that could have been reassuring if he agreed in the slightest.

But instead he held up his empty bottle, let his strained half smile fall into any easy smirk, and asked “Round two?” Because he was a good friend like that.

“Two?” Rick huffed. “Yer behind, I’m ready fer round four.”

That day might not have been the day Rick would finally get over Daryl Dixon, but it was definitely going to be the day he would drink until he and Shane were downing whiskey with his Grandpappy’s old station buddies and he finally passed out on the porch swing. So blacked out that he slept straight through until the morning sun broke over the sea of trees in the swamp, and Rick realized he didn’t once dream of the boy with the pale blue eyes and shy smile only ever meant for him.

\--

The White Oak cemetery was older than the town itself. The plot of land fenced off with rusted wrought iron far down the plantation road, located in a clearing in the swamp with its own iconic white oak tree that was so large it rivaled some of the trailers and houses around there. It was so old that the town was named after it, and the place it stood on was one of the first cemeteries in the state of Georgia that was a collective of the residents of the area – seeing as most of the families in the South preferred to have family plots on the grounds of their own land. Rick had asked many times, back when he was learning about those time periods in his school history classes, why there was a community cemetery and not separate ones like his textbooks dictated. But he was always blown off, steered in a different direction, told to go outside and play, and had ultimately never gotten an answer.

The white oak tree was the first thing they saw as they drove down the plantation road, towering over the rest of the swamp and just as tall as the church steeple that should have caved in on itself long ago. There was a reason everyone used the church on the North side of town, where Shane’s uncle was the pastor and the walls were actually insulated; the church that stood by the White Oak cemetery was more of a shell of a building. There had been a fire, so long ago Rick doubted his dad had even been born, and it’s marks scorched the last remnants of aged white paint on the remaining walls like brands – most of the frame was still intact despite the beating it must take day in and day out from the Georgia heat and humidity, but the walls and roof were gone in patches that left it looking like the church itself had just grown out of the ground. Another piece that had been reclaimed by the swamp, faith alone was all that made it stay standing.

But the town still used the cemetery, and held their funeral services outside in the shadow of the abandoned church, all out of tradition and a sense of familiarity in the old grounds. There was something about how the air between the old tombstones smelled like magnolia flowers and Spanish moss, the grass was fresh and green and there was always life teaming among the death, bugs and flowers and birds carried on the breeze, an air of peace and acceptance settled where there should have been sorrow. The way the Georgia sunshine didn’t burn so harshly in the shade of the giant old live oak, cracked bark white and gnarled with age, standing vigil over the moss covered tombstones and mausoleums. Because of the White Oak cemetery, Rick had never understood why there was such a taboo with graveyards – painted as creepy and daunting, when all he had known was the other-worldly patch of ground down the road from his grandparents’ estate. And stepping out of the driver’s side of his car into the quiet gravel parking lot next to the old church gave Rick that same sense of serene concession, soothing like a balm after the years of constant anger and mourning and regret. Here, in a place that revered death and celebrated life all at once, everything that had been plaguing him seemed so small.

This was a time to think of his grandpappy, and all that he had meant to him. Rick had spent enough time dedicating every waking thought to Daryl Dixon, he refused to spend the day he put his grandfather in the ground doing the same thing. The atmosphere around the church made it a lot easier than Rick could have ever anticipated.

The service was perfect, just the right balance of reflective and fondly nostalgic, with only a few touches on religion and next to none on how everyone should consider their own lives in the face of death. His father’s funeral had been about how short life is, how everyone should treasure what they have, and focus on what God’s plan for them was – and Rick had hated it, had run off before the service had ended, and never even got to see them lower the casket into the ground. But his grandpappy had been a grounded man, and had also known what was coming for a long time, he had spoken with Scott Walsh years and years ago and told him what he did and did not want when his time came. Rick couldn’t help but smile in a few places, because the words and phrases in Pastor Walsh’s sermon was so familiar it was as if his grandpappy was standing right there telling it himself. Though that also made tears burn behind his eyes, because his grandpappy hadn’t been able to string three words together coherently for a good number of years now, and if he had Rick had missed them. Because he had been hiding in Kentucky, and he never got to speak to his grandpappy one last time before the disease destroyed who he was. His grandmother had to go through that alone, Rick’s Mother had stayed in Kentucky most of the time to cater to her heartbroken son, and Rick’s grandmother had no one but the hospice care-takers to help her. Rick hadn’t thought twice about it, and guilt was now wracking his body as he reflected on the past few years, and on how his Grandmother had still jumped to her feet and hugged him when he finally returned – after abandoning her when she probably needed family the most.

Now, standing next to her as she stood strong and shed quiet bittersweet tears, Rick reached out and grabbed her hand. The old woman returned the gesture with no hesitation, pulled him closer so she could take his arm in hers and hold his hand tighter, patting it with the other and smiling through the tears before looking at him. She looked so proud of him, and Rick, who wasn’t sure when he had forgotten what was important – subconsciously decided that this woman who practically raised him after his father passed shouldn’t be given the same amount of love and attention as his Mother. But he made a silent promise, to himself and his grandpappy, that he would never leave her alone again like that. Family was all he had. Throwing it away wasn’t an option, not for him.

Keeping his arm wound tight with hers, Rick escorted his Grandmother to the casket to lay roses down, stayed with her as people shook hands during the procession, and was once again surprised to see he had been so very, very wrong about what was going on around him. Rick was the one that had been alone, his Grandmother had an entire community that rallied behind her in an instant – each shaking her hand, saying they were so sorry, but also saying they will see her for bingo night that weekend. That they still had bridge on Wednesday, but she didn’t need to bring anything for potluck, though his grandmother smiled and said she still had some of Mr. Burwell’s bathtub gin left over from the week before. Some asked if they could bring her casseroles or pies, some invited her to their own houses for lunch or supper, or offered to come help fix up some things around the estate and grounds. Rick bowed his head and let the humbleness of it all smack him upside the head, like his Mother had done so many times when he was young and arrogant, because it shouldn’t have been a surprise that the world was going to go on without him there. There was so much more to life than his grievances and self-pity, the world did not revolve around him, and Rick soaked in the revelation like the last rays of the Georgia sun.

There was to be another round of food and drinks and celebrating the life of James Buchannon Grimes. And although Rick wanted to stay at the cemetery longer – still in a reflective mood – he drove his Grandmother back to the Grimes estate first and left her in the good care of his Mother and all of the friends that hadn’t left her side in hours. Someone had strung up Christmas lights and lanterns from the house to the large trees on the ground, illuminating the area in the fading light, set up picnic tables and started the grills, the Grimes plantation once again buzzing with life and chatter and children running around to get rid of the jitters from standing at the cemetery for so long. Rick shared short acknowledgements and accepted condolences as he slowly made his way back towards the plantation road when a voice stopped him.

“RICK! HEY RICK!” loud and high pitched, a small smile that was real and so light escaped his lips as Rick turned around to Maggie Greene running up to him in a black summer dress covered in darker floral patterns to match the funeral procession. “Where ya goin’?” she asked as she stopped just short of running into him, grass stains already on her knees and in her hair, the dress was probably going to end up with tears before the night was over.

“Jus’ back to the cemetery, think I left somethang there,” Rick told her, smiling lightly because it could have been a white lie if Rick didn’t feel like he still had some unfinished business between the tombstones. There was someone he needed to see, and he didn’t get the chance with all the commotion and people at the service.

“Can I com’?” Maggie asked, bright eyes showing how badly she needed to go and _do_ something, and Rick knew that all too well, he had been the same way.

“Sure, go ask yer mom real quick, I’ll wait,” he smiled at her, and watched her run off through the grass with crickets and lightning bugs scattering at each step, pondering if he should mow the grass while he was there. It’d take all day, but it would give him something to do, and maybe he should ask why the house looked a little unkempt since he had last seen it. His grandparents had always had someone come up once a week to do work on the grounds, but it looked like the place hadn’t seen much attention in a few weeks – maybe even a few months, and that just wasn’t like them. His grandmother loved the estate more than anything, although it must have been hard the past month or two with his grandpappy declining so rapidly. Rick would help her get everything back on it’s feet before he went back home.

Maggie came running up not a few minutes later with Beth following close behind in a black dress that had a poofy tulle skirt and a black bow tied around her waist, white-blonde curls pulled into a pony tail with another bow and honestly looking too precious for words. “Momma said I gotta brin’ Bethie with us,” the older girl told him, scooping the toddler up when she hid behind her skirt once more.

“Alright,” Rick laughed a little, making Beth hide her face in Maggie’s hair again. “We better get movin’ then, or they’ll eat all the food b’fore we get back.” Maggie made it to the end of the drive before she dropped Beth, but not cause she was heavy or anything – the ten year old insisted it was cause Beth would want to walk on her own. Together the three made their way down the gravel road in the dying light, tinting everything hues of yellows and oranges as the warmth of the day started to leave the air and the swamp came alive around them. Bugs and birds screaming at each other in between the trees, and little critters running around in the last hour of daylight before hiding for the night, and Rick couldn’t help but feel at home once more traveling down the rough roads of Georgia. Maggie skipped ahead and doubled back often, and Beth would chase her, holding her hand and looking around while chewing on her fingers nervously, but eventually they made it back to White Oak cemetery just as the shadows started to cast long from the tombstones.

Rick made his way over towards the fresh patch of earth where they had lowered his grandpappy not an hour before, and immediately Maggie and Beth ran ahead of him.

“Wha’ja forget?” Maggie asked him loudly as she ran over and stopped just behind the gravemarker, the fresh polished stone standing out among the older weather-worn ones.

“Just forgot to say somethang,” Rick told her quietly and with a soft smile. “And I gotta say hi to my Dad,” he added, pointing to the tombstone beside his Grandpappy’s, with green moss covering the north side of it and almost obscuring the name engraved in it. Except the moss looked to have been wiped away, carefully and purposefully, but still obvious in how the moss covered the edges of the large marbled rock. Rick tilted his head as he approached, wondering if it had been his mother or his grandmother, neither were afraid to get their hands dirty, but he hadn’t noticed them cleaning off their hands of anything after. Moss down in the south stained your fingers pretty badly, a perfect visual to pair with someone having a ‘green thumb’ if they worked in their garden all the time. His Grandmother had always had the stains on her fingers, though it had been a long time, she always wore gloves over her sensitive old hands ever since she got some poison oak rashes when Rick was in his early teens.

Suddenly Beth made a soft excited gasp, and stood next to the gravestone that was as tall as her to carefully touch the top and proclaim “Shiney,” in soft little chimes. Her big blue eyes looked up to her sister when Maggie came to investigate, “Look Maggie, shiney!” she chirped with emphasis on her ‘e’ sounds, and pointed to something on the stone but didn’t pick it up, like she somehow knew better.

“Why’re those there?” Maggie questioned with a confused squint, and by that time Rick had approached enough to see the bright copper pennies that caught the last rays of light in the sky. Glinting orange in blinding little circles, and Rick felt like time had stopped – because he remembered another grave that had had pennies, but he hadn’t seen it in many many years. Another glint of light shined out of the corner of his eye, and Rick spotted ten more small copper coins sitting atop his Father’s tombstone as well, and something filled his chest so fully and swiftly that it made his heartbeat hurt with each pump against his rib cage. It echoed through his bones, clogged up his throat, and visions of a small stone laid under one of the trees just inside the treeline of the Dixon property came to him fast and vivid. It was just a piece of sandstone, carved into roughly with a knife that must have taken hours, that simply read “Trisha” because Daryl had been too young to realize that his mother’s name was Patricia. And her headstone was covered in pennies, Daryl would leave one a few times a year whenever it felt right, and they stacked and scattered among the grass and leaves and brush on the swamp floor.

The pennies were meant to show a way to pay your respects, to ask the spirits to not only look after them but to wish luck on their loved ones, and in some instances to ask for a wish or favor from the deceased spirit. And of course the real origin was paying the charon for passage to the world of the dead. But Daryl had always took venerating the spirits of the dead very seriously, something that he put his whole heart into, and knew deep in his bones was not only right but integral to the life he lived. Always trying to right the wrongs of his family, and respecting the balance that was so off-kilter the whole town should have fallen into ruin years ago. But over all, it was a practice that he _wanted_ to do, because it gave him comfort. If Rick had come looking for Daryl in the early morning hours years ago, when everyone else was still asleep inside the Dixon house, either Daryl would also be passed out on his mattress on the floor, or he’d be sitting cross-legged in front of the makeshift grave.

“Someone wanted to make sure Grandpappy made it to other side okay,” Rick told the girls, and though he managed to keep his voice steady, he knew Maggie had seen the wet sheen to his eyes. He didn’t know if he was grateful, or angry, or just so fucking sad because even after all this damn time Daryl fucking Dixon still managed to astound him in ways Rick hadn’t thought possible. He must have come to the cemetery, after everyone had left, and placed the pennies there. Daryl had been standing right where Rick was standing in that moment, had only left less than an hour ago. Could have been ten minutes for all he knew, maybe had even heard Maggie talking as they walked up the path and then darted back into the forest.

Rick dragged his hand over his face, ridding it of the tears he hadn’t let fall during the entire funeral ceremony and sniffed as he scanned the treeline, as if maybe Daryl would still be standing there. But there was nothing but shadows and darkness as the sun finally set beyond the horizon of leaves and trees covered in trails of Spanish moss. He didn’t know where Daryl was, how long he’d been gone, or what had possessed him to act like a human being when their last interaction showed that was the last damn thing on his mind – but Rick couldn’t help whispering a “thank you” into the breeze, no matter how much the acknowledgement felt like a knife to his chest.

Thunder rolled deep in the sky far to the west, where the clouds blended in with the approaching night, and Rick still hated the sound. It felt too much like home, like anger, and the unnamed emotion that constantly reminded Rick he would never get over Daryl Dixon. It was the only way he felt alive.

 


	2. House of the Rising Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am constantly grinning and blushing when I see the lovely welcoming response that first chapter got, it's so good to be back. As soon as I get this chapter up I'm going to go reply to all you lovelies who commented, I appreciate every single one of you and I'm so glad you all are ready for the ride I'm about to take you on. 
> 
> I'm happy to say this part of the story won't be as drawn out as the last one, I know y'all probably couldn't go long without seeing Daryl again so I promise I won't make you wait to see his gorgeous face - or for Rick and Daryl to actually hash out what happened at the end of Part 1. I'm so excited and I hope you all are too. 
> 
> Also, as a few have asked _yes_ there is a new playlist and cover, a few of you have already found it but to those who haven't here it is:http://8tracks.com/inspired-workaholic/southern-discomfort-vol-3  
> 
> 
> Okay, no preamble again, let's dive on in. This chapter was beta'd by the amazing and wonderous The_Royal_Gourd who can wrangle my craziness in the best of ways. Thank you so much dear, this wouldn't be what it is without you. <3
> 
> Once again, thank you for reading - and I hope you enjoy it.

\--

\--

There was something wrong with the house.

It felt too full, even when it was empty, and no matter where he turned Rick could always feel eyes on him. He must’ve not noticed it the first couple nights after returning to White Oak, not counting the night he got black out drunk and slept on the porch swing.

The night after the funeral he felt it. Emotionally wrecked and not sure how to feel about anything, Rick had returned to the estate with Maggie and Beth in tow to a party in full swing that he could barely register. Thoughts all consumed with how Daryl had been right there, on the edge of every interaction without him knowing it, just out of sight or barely missed by a few minutes. The storm of sadness and longing, anger and bitterness - with just a tragic touch of hope - all swarmed in him like a kicked nest of bees. Hurt just as bad, too, with just as much devastation left in its wake.

And he hadn’t even seen Daryl yet.

He had been distracted the rest of the night, and it just wasn’t fair that everyone could probably see Rick was troubled and attributed it to the loss of his grandpappy. That’s what should have had him so messed up. Not the prospect that Daryl fucking Dixon might still have a heart somewhere in the dark recesses of the cavern Rick imagined lay inside his rib cage. Nor should he have been so distracted by the long shadow cast by the old plantation house, crawling slowly across the lawns until it stretched painfully abnormal and grotesque and finally blended in with the surrounding dark. The yellowed Christmas lights and faint specks of lightning bugs in the grass doing nothing to chase away the feeling that something was watching them. Observing or judging it was hard to tell, but Rick cast far too many glances at the windows expecting to find the same jagged shape that haunted his nightmares to that very day.

It was frequent enough that when the time came to retreat back to their rooms inside the old mansion, Rick’s steps were slower and more cautious, leaving him the last one to enter the house. His rough fingers traced the carving in the doorway as he passed, but it only gave him a brief sense of relief before he was stranded in the middle of the entryway – feeling way too aware of every nook and cranny in that room that was dark enough for something to hide. It put his mind and body on red alert, every bit of him tense and awaiting confrontation in the same way it did when he answered a bad police call.

“It’s alright, Ricky,” his Grandmother told him sleepily, sounding so tired it made _Rick’s_ bones ache. “Let’em be, get som’ sleep.” She didn’t even wait for so much as a “goodnight” from him before she was meandering down the hallway towards her own wing and empty bed. Not realizing the cold chill that had raced down her grandson’s spine at her slurred words.

Rick had always known there was something in his Grandparent’s house, ever since he had been old enough to walk and wander on his own. Knew about the child-like spirit that moved his things as he grew up, sifted through his books and music, changed the station on the radio; it had been an invisible companion every summer for as long as he could remember.

But his grandmother had said let _them_ be.

And Rick was once again reminded how little he knew about the ancient plantation house buried deep in the swamp of South Georgia. It was enough to keep him awake the rest of the night.

\--

The following morning Rick set to work on the property, starting with the haphazard sea of over-grown grass that cultivated all over the grounds, thick patches that took more than the old lawn mower his grandparent’s had left rusting in his grandpappy’s tool shed. On the ancient splintered wall inside he had found a machete with a red handle that only needed a little sharpening to work through the areas around the house, in particular where the tall grass grew as high as his knees in the shade. There were branches and dried moss and bits of the swamp all across the grounds, rotting magnolias with the petals so gone they’d turned to mush in the grass, and Rick would have been surprised that his grandparents had let the estate become so unkept except it somehow looked right. Sure it was a little messy, but it was like the swamp was reclaiming the property. If Rick hadn’t come along it might have crept all the way up to the double oak doors and swallowed the house whole, taking back the land that was once wild and belonged to no one.

Much like the other houses along the plantation road.

Rick hadn’t been blind to how few of his grandparent’s neighbors had showed up to his grandpappy’s funeral. When he asked around the answers he got were that the residents had moved, and he couldn’t believe it. After decades, and sometimes centuries, of a single family passing down their estates from generation to generation they just up and left their family heritage in the dust? Or to the mercy of the swamp, as the case seemed to be. Where the dark trees grew tall and broad, branches stretching further than they should to mask the area in darkness, green moss and weather stains painting the chipped white pillars and walls of the plantation houses, standing silent and abandoned like mausoleums. It was too ominous for Rick to sit idly by and let the Grimes estate become next in the backroads graveyard growing along the well used gravel street.

Which was how he found himself sweating through his clothes, pushing the contraption his family dared to call a lawn mower over every inch of the property until everything was trimmed and uniform and somewhat like he remembered. After a few hours of filling trashbags with swamp debris and exerting more physical labor than he had in the past year, Rick started to realize that he was getting things done so quickly and finding all the equipment he needed because nothing had moved since he left. Of course there were a few exceptions that couldn’t help but shift over time, but every tool and piece of yard equipment he needed was in the exact same spot that he remembered it being in since he was eight years old. The years had passed so quickly now that Rick looked back on them, growing up each summer under the Georgia sun, so it had never struck him as strange that the estate seemed to be frozen in time. That nothing new had been brought to the property in decades, and most objects predated his father’s birth.

He made several mental notes throughout the afternoon to ask his grandmother about it when he next got the chance.

Sometime a little after noon he’d given up and lost his shirt. The drenched fabric sticking to his skin and so suffocating he had to rip the offending thing over his head in order to even breathe correctly, not caring one bit that he was probably going to be sun burned within an inch of his life when the day was over. He’d never make it as a farmer, he’d die of heat stroke before he could get anything done.

“Ya showin’ off fer anyone?” his grandmother said out of the blue. Scaring the hell out of him after he'd turned off the mower and could hear her voice over the ringing in his ears. Late afternoon brought in the chorus of cicadas on the breeze, that was finally beginning to cool down, as it tinted the grounds a shade darker with the descending gradients of the setting sun.

“No one around, Gan’ma,” Rick said with an amused smile, not acknowledging that his gaze had swept the treeline as if there might be someone watching anyway. “Jus’ too damn hot, ain’t it autumn already?”

“Not fer another couple weeks,” the old woman snickered, handing him a cool glass of tea and watching as Rick downed it like a man stranded in the desert. She always made him do the small things around the estate in between the weekly visits from their hired hands, back when he was young and had ‘ _infinite amounts of energy_ ’ as his Grandpappy used to say. ‘ _Builds character, too_.’ But she always brought him sweet tea after he had worked hard for a few hours. To give him a small break and distract him into resting for a minute before he collapsed – Rick had always been a hard believer in doing everything as soon as possible to get it out of the way, and leave room for the rest of the day to take him where it needed to. When he was young that was to go dive in the Greene’s swimming hole before it got too dark, and lately it had been a cold beer with Shane or a few extra minutes to laze around before night classes. “Yer doin’ good, dear. They seem ta like what’cha been up to out here, fixin’ up the property.” It took Rick a moment to register what she had said, and then he was staring at her all wide bright blue eyes behind dripping black curls. “So thanks fer that, sweetheart.”

“Gan’ma?”Rick started, but the old woman was surveying the property and heaving a sigh that was either exhaled heavily or in relief, it was hard to tell.

“Hav’n’t been takin’ care’a this old house,” she grumbled more to herself than to her grandson. “Not somethin’ I should’a let slip, but with yer grandpappy these past few months…” she trailed off and Rick let the silence hang respectfully, let her have her moment of remembrance, before he tried again.

“Gan’ma, what do’ya mean ‘they’?”

The look his grandmother leveled at him was not one Rick was unfamiliar with, but he’d forgotten how little bullshit the woman would tolerate. Beating around the bush just wasn’t in her repertoire of conversations she was willing to have.

“You know what’s in tha’ house, Ricky,” she practically scolded him, voice low and full of more secrecy than Rick had ever heard in her soft Southern drawl. Not in all the time he’d known her. Even when she used to scare him away from her library at the top of the stairs - saying a woman even older than her would pinch him if he dared to enter. Would sneak up without him ever seeing her. It had never happened, but Rick couldn’t help but think even then she hadn’t been completely lying to him - when she told him someone occupied the room on the third floor where the sun soaked into shelves upon shelves of dusty books.

“I know ‘bout one,” he told her just as quiet. “There’s more?”

“Always has been,” she replied, declared like it was as true as the sky was blue and the swamp was wet. “Surpris’d ya ain’t met more of ‘em.”

“But, who are they?” Rick insisted, voice betraying him as he broke from the quiet, calm inquiry to something a little more insistent. “What are they?” Too many memories of the thing with jagged teeth and sharp edges, that moved like smoke and bit like ice.

“They’re dead, dear heart,” his Grandmother drawled sympathetically as she began to turn towards the house once more. “But they’re family, or as good as. An’ we take care a’family, no matter what happens.”

“Even when they’re dead?”

“ _Espec’lly_ then,” she answered around a small smirk, spread slow and smooth like butter over bread. Then she was walking back across the lawns towards the house, and Rick couldn’t leave the conversation like that. All his worries unheeded and questions unanswered.

“Gan’ma wait!” Rick ran to catch up with her, abandoning the mower and all his work scattered across the freshly cut grass, only stooping to snag his shirt and pull it back over his head as he went. He met her by the porch, just as she settled to sit on the old wooden steps and look at him expectantly. “Wha- is there somethang wrong with the house?” She didn’t answer right away, expression leaving her and masking her thoughts in a way Rick could never read. His grandmother had a poker face that would win her Vegas if she ever ventured that far West of the Mississippi, and though it trained Rick to learn every subtle facet and tell in a person’s face - he would never have a chance in hell of knowing what went on in his grandmother’s head. “Why is it like this?”

“Cause it’s old,” she decided, after a few moments of searching for an answer. “It ain’t no more special than any oth’r house in this town, they all got secrets buried ‘neath the floorboards.” Rick knew he looked confused, skeptical, by the way her eyes narrowed at him as he leaned against one of the porch banisters. “Whole town has somethin’, deep down ‘n the foundations and built into ev’ry brick an’ frame, too much history not to. ‘t’s what happens when ya live in the South,” she pointed out, seeming to pick up a glass out of nowhere with what looked like bourbon and ice in it. She drank half of it in one gulp, not even wincing at the burn, and handed it to her grandson right after with an air as if he would need if more than her. “After yer grandpappy passed it’s been quieter, they’re respectin’ his transi’tion ta the oth’r side.”

“Ya think he really did?” he dared to ask, bringing up the glass to his lips but stalling at the strong burn of alcohol that wafted off of it. What the hell was she drinking? Lighter fluid? “He ain’t…” Rick trailed off, making a motion toward the vigil house and closed double doors behind them, “stuck here? Like the rest’a them?”

“He was ready to pass, dear,” his Grandmother told him with quiet confidence. “Had been for a long time now. All the ones that’re inside are people who still got somethin’ tyin’ them here, or they jus’ don’ understand yet. Maybe they nev’r will.” She looked sad at the prospect, glancing across the property and sweeping along to the sides of the house lined with the wrap-around porch, littered with gleaming glass windows that reflected the late afternoon colors in bright square patches. Rick took time to process everything, chose his words, but he wasn’t skeptical about what the estate might hold. That had been stricken from him since he was 8 years old and got barreled to the ground by a boy with paint on his face and fear in his eyes. Rick intimately knew about the world beyond the tree line, of darkness and magic and unseen things that dictated every twist and turn of his life as the years passed. But he wasn’t sure how to approach the subject that he’d never really spoken aloud about before, not to anyone except the person who had shown him everything in the first place.

“Ya nev’r talked about them this much,” Rick pointed out, catching his grandmother’s attention again. “Nev’r talked about them at all, really.”

“You were young, not talkin’ ‘bout them was all that kept you safe.”

“I was never safe, Gan’ma,” Rick told her sincerely, and the old woman looked like he had slapped her across the face. “Not with the thangs in the swamp, ghosts in our house were probably the safest thang I ev’r dealt with growin’ up.” Her old eyes watched him carefully, striking blue tracing the lines of his face looking for a lie, but Rick had never been so open and honest with his Grandmother in all his life. It felt good, to be honest – knowing they had finally crossed that line and could speak freely about what was hidden in the corners of the Grimes estate, or what haunted the spaces in-between the trees that surrounded it. “The only thang that kept me safe was Daryl.”

It didn’t hurt as much to say his name, or to admit that Daryl had saved his life far too many times for Rick to not owe him at least some semblance of good will. But Rick would never tell the man that fact to his face, if Rick were ever to see him again. The past few days in White Oak that was all Rick thought about, constantly worrying about running into him randomly in town or just wandering the swamp. It’s why he had barely left the estate. To minimize the chance it might happen, no matter how much it tugged at his heart to just follow that path through the woods and right up to his front door.

Scoffing and re-settling her old bones a bit on the porch steps, Rick’s grandmother looked back across the lawns again and stared right through the trees in the direction of the Dixon lot, while Rick did everything in his power to not show how that tightened his chest to the point of pain. “Yes, well,” his grandmother sighed. “Even that boy’s drawin’s and spells ain’t helpin’ the spirits in our halls, they been actin’ up the past few years and he’s tried everythin’ he could get his hands on ta help me an’ yer grandpappy.”

Wait, _what_.

“Nuthin’s worked,” she continued on despite the devastation on Rick’s face, his mind scattered to the far reaches of existence as if someone had just put a gun to his head and sprayed the inside of his skull across the grass. “Made a lot of ‘em more docile, I s’pose, but one ‘er two are still givin’ me trouble. Like ta scratch and bite, push shit off shelves, keep movin’ my damn shoes.”

“Daryl’s been here,” Rick heard himself say, ask, breathless and hurt and astonished – anger brewing slowly in the storm of emotions that was building and clashing together like thunder behind his eyes and in his throat. He felt sick, he felt rage, he felt confusion, and the only one who was going to get it all first hand in that moment was his grandmother.

“Oh yes,” she answered, either not noticing or purposefully ignoring the time-bomb standing next to her. “I ask’d him ov’r maybe – a littl’ ov’r a year ago? They were buggin’ yer Grandpappy, an’ ya know he stopp’d speakin’ years ago so he coul’n’t tell ‘em off, so I told some’a the neighbor kids ta go an’ fetch him for me.” She let out a little chuckle at the thought. “They look’d so damn scared, havin’ ta go knock on _Old Man Dixon’s door_ ,” she crooned with a spooky lilt to her voice and a smirk still tugging at her lips. “Didn’ know that littl’ shit Will got thrown back in County. 10 months aft’r breakin’ probation, pulled over fer _speeding_ of all things,” she taunted, taking the glass from Rick’s hands since he wasn’t drinking it anyway and near finishing the rest with the gulp she took. “Asshole, jus’ got back not too long ago. Mus’a been why they didn’ make it yesterday.”

“You know why they weren’t here,” Rick ground out, trying to contain the amount of anger in his voice because the look his Grandmother cut him told him it still had far too much attitude and she would cuff him upside the head if need be. “They don’ giv’ two shits, ‘bout anyone but themselves, and if Daryl does then he’s just avoidin’ me.” There was that stab of pain he’d been waiting for, piercing through his chest painfully and only making him more angry. More sad. “Still found time ta put pennies on Grandpappy’s grave after we left, and Dad’s.”

His grandmother made a soft sound in the back of her throat, and her eyes softened a fraction as her gaze grew long and distant. “Bless his heart,” she murmured.

If Rick had the glass he would have thrown the damn thing against the wall.

“Don’ you look’it me like that,” the old woman scolded him, voice louder and more sharp than it had been in a long time, making Rick huff to let out the crowded feeling in his chest. It felt like his rib cage was about to bust open. “That boy done did a lot fer us this past year, an’ it was hurtin’ him jus’ as much ev’ry time he came ov’r here. But he still did it, fer _us_ – you done a lot too, shit ya had ta do that felt like life was scoopin’ out yer insides but ya _did it anyway_. Takin’ care’a yer mom and stayin’ close to home, ‘m damn proud of you fer that an’ now that yer back yer gonna throw a temper tantrum? Suck’it up, and put it behind ya.” Rick’s jaw was set so tight he was surprised he hadn’t broken some teeth. Not daring to speak or swallow hard or even breathe too deeply, because he wasn’t sure what would come out of him if he did. A scream? A long stream of curse words that had Daryl Dixon’s name bookending for emphasis? A sob? Tears? Maybe he would just burst into flames or the ground would swallow him whole.

But the words that rang through his head on repeat was his Grandmother’s declaration that every time Daryl had been over to the estate, which was so frequent that he had been fixture enough to upset the old woman, it hurt him just as much as coming back to White Oak had hurt Rick.

It had _hurt_ him?

“He’s gotta have feelings first b’fore he can be hurt, Gan’ma,” Rick muttered quietly, still angry and dark and so exhausted just uttering the words into the late evening-air. “And he made it _real_ clear he didn’ have any las’ we spoke.”

“An’ you believe that?” his grandmother pried, watching every twitch in his expression.

“I have to,” Rick said with a dangerous tilt of his head, the line of questioning needing to end before he just kicked a hole in the side of the house. “Seen too much ta not believe what the Dixon’s tell me, they ain’t ever lied to me before. I can at least trust in that.”

“Trust,” she chorused with an air of disbelief. “You hate him tha’ much an’ ya think you can still trust ‘im?”

“I don’ hate him Gan’ma,” Rick admitted, in that moment both to his Grandmother and to himself. The anger left him swiftly at the statement, the space quickly refilled with a crippling sadness that even after all this time Rick couldn’t bring himself to hate Daryl Dixon. And he didn’t know what that meant for him. “But I can trust there’s no love there, if there ever was it’s long dead.”

“What’s dead still lingers,” his Grandmother almost whispered, and the shadow of the plantation house felt more heavy than it had all afternoon. “We know tha’ bett’r than anyone.”

“Ya’d think I’d have a better handle on this then,” Rick near laughed, something that stung like tears lacing the words bitterly. He swallowed back the thick sensation, staring at the tints to the sky that were a certain shade of blue that didn’t help him in the slightest, but helped the hate that was still seeping into every pore redirect towards himself. “H-How… how is he?”

His grandmother had the decency to hold back the pity that should have shown in her eyes.

“Sad.”

Well, at least that made two of them.

\--

It was long after supper when Rick finally finished all the tasks he had started on the grounds, once again having taken far too much on just to fill the hours of the day. Except for the short interruption that had tilted his world on its axis so far that it rolled off the pedestal – he was able to fight off the onslaught of memories and thoughts and emotions. He was so damn tired of it all, feeling so damn much, an overload he had done without the last couple years and honestly couldn’t wait to get back to. Only when he had his head down and was solely focused on the yard work he was dead set completing could he push it all out. He had come in when the Greene girls came to fetch him for supper, devoured everything he could fit on his plate in less than 15 minutes, and then hurried back outside to get everything cleaned up before he lost the light. The days were growing shorter with winter fast approaching, and the darkness crept up on Rick faster than he had anticipated.

The house was silent when he entered later that night, kicking off grass-stained boots and shucking a lot of his dirty clothes before even leaving the mudroom. They were soaked in sweat and smelled like swamp water, and the laundry room was right there anyway, besides the only ones who would run into him wandering the halls in his boxers were going to be his Mother or Grandmother. And they both had gone to bed early after the tiring few days that just passed. All Rick wanted was a shower, a beer, and his bed; preferably in that order.

Though he didn’t encounter anyone as he quietly padded through the shadowed halls in bare feet, shivering at the cold air hitting his damp skin on his chest and arms, Rick couldn’t help but feel like he was being watched. After the conversation with his grandmother that afternoon, Rick was certain that he was. But the gaze that burned into the back of his head also left trails of fire and ice over his skin like something was soaking in every inch of what was on display. He was practically naked already, but he felt even more so as invisible eyes dissected him as he climbed the stairs and escaped into the bathroom to shower. Even the white tile walls and opaque glass cubicle didn’t help the sensation leave, and Rick scrubbed as quick as he had during his academy days, when he was in the open shower rooms with twenty other guys naked as the day they were born.

He almost didn’t go back down the stairs, after retreating to his room with a towel tied tight around his waist to fetch clean clothes, but with his mind whirling and his senses on red alert it was going to be impossible to fall asleep if he didn’t eat or drink something. Even as exhausted as his body was, if his mind was preoccupied he’d toss and turn until whatever was watching him decided it was a good time of night to stand over his bed or something else equally creepy. So, doing his absolute best to _not_ acknowledge that his skin was crawling as he navigated the plantation house, Rick made his way back to the kitchen. Also not acknowledging the voice and words drifting through his mind of a day when he was young and a shy 12-year-old boy had warned him that the more he looked for trouble the more trouble would find him. If he just ignored the spirits trying to get his attention they would go away. _Once they know ya know abou’ ‘em, they’ll come lookin’ fer you, you’ll nev’r be able to get rid of ‘em._

Rick didn’t need to be told twice.

Light poured into the hallway from the kitchen, soft yellow and artificial, accompanied by the sound of running water and the quiet clicking of slippers on the old tile floor. He knew the combined sounds all too well – when he used to actually wake up before noon during the summer, or when he used to sneak in before his Mother woke up and had to try and pretend he spent the night in his bed and not in Daryl or Shane’s.

But what was his Grandmother doing awake so late at night?

Her back was turned to the entry way, standing over the sink with the water running and every light in the kitchen on, causing something cold and sinister to slide down Rick’s spine and send shivers through every limb. She didn’t hear him come in, and Rick didn’t miss the way her sloped shoulders tensed when he opened the fridge for his beer, still attempting for nonchalant instead of acknowledging whatever ominous air was clouding the space like fog.

“Why’re you up so late?” he asked after he opened the fridge. His voice cut through the silence in a way that disturbed the tense atmosphere, but also soothed it away seamlessly.

“Rick, ya scared me half ta death,” his grandmother scolded, sounding distracted and not taking her hands out of the sink. “I jus’ couldn’t sleep in tha’ big old bed alone. Ya just get in from outside?” She finally looked over her shoulder, the florescent lights making her expression even more plastic looking and illuminating that poker face she was so famous for.

“Showered,” Rick answered curtly, twisting off the beer bottle cap and shutting the fridge door with his back so he leaned against the old machine – not taking his eyes off his grandmother as he pulled long from the bottle in attempt to stall and wait for a tell of some sort. “Somethang wrong?”

“Nah, rinsing off some scrapes, must’a happened ‘n my sleep,” she grumbled while turning back to the running faucet with her whole arm under the stream of water. “Hate gettin’ old, takes fer-fuckin’-ever to heal.” She reached over for the soap, and in the bright lights above the sink there was no hiding the long blue and black marks on her arms shaped just like finger-prints.

“ _Jesus_!” Rick exclaimed, crossing the space in an instant to inspect her arm and hands more, not letting his grandmother pull away from him as he saw the shape of bruises surrounding her wrist. Crescent shaped cuts in the exact places that fingernails would dig in harshly, matching the spacing of jagged lines down her other arm as if someone had latched on and just tore through her old skin like paper. “Gan’ma what is this!?” Rick asked loud and harsh, though he knew what it was. No one else was in the house that could do this to her unless she was doing it to herself. His blue eyes blazed as he looked straight into his grandmother’s that matched in color, staring in astonishment and anger, “I thought you said they were docile!”

“They were,” she said with a familiar tilt to her head and narrowing of her eyes, scowling deep at her grandson. “They hav’n’t been actin’ up lately. Bu’ Daryl ain’t been ‘round since his Daddy came back from prison, so they’s gettin’ a little restless – this one jus’ snuck up on me.”

“This ain’t restless,” Rick scowled back, nodding towards the arm he was now trying to help clean – noticing how it shook and trembled from pain and shock, “this is anger. Why didn’ ya call him earlier, if it gets this bad – it ain’t always this bad, is it?” He looked back to her so he could try and spot if she was guarding her expression again, the only thing close to a tell when it came to the old woman.

She shook her head stubbornly, jaw set much like his own when he was frustrated, “Ain’t their fault, an’ it ain’t Daryl’s either so you leave that man be.” The words were said with all the authority that Rick knew his grandmother so well for, and he bit his tongue for a moment to at least acknowledge that he was trying to not blame the one person in that whole damn town that could’ve helped his grandmother not turn into a human scratching post. “He’s done enough fer us, there’s no need ta-“

“Oh I’m draggin’ his ass back over here first thang in the mornin’,” Rick ground out, his voice shaking with the rage and the apprehension and border-line horror that there was nothing he could do _but_ go to the Dixon lot and make one of them help him. No matter what it took. “Or ask his Nain’aine ta come do somethang to the house, help the angry ones move on and let the quiet ones stay quiet.”

“It don’t work like that, Ricky,” his grandmother protested sadly.

“Yes it does,” Rick insisted after another pause to dry her old arms and inspect the damage and what needed to be bandaged. “This world is for the living, not all of us have ta cater to the dead.” That was left for people like Daryl and Nain’e, who knew what the hell they were doing and could venerate them without getting hurt. “I’ll go speak to Old Man Dixon, or Merle, have them give me Nain’e’s address so I can visit her – she’ll have an idea of what to do.” Rick led his grandmother to the kitchen table, and once again felt eyes boring into the side of his face, but this time he knew who they belonged to.

“Daryl can help jus’ as much, Rick,” she told him firmly.

Rick was quiet a moment. He got the first aid kit from the cupboard and set it beside her without looking his Grandmother in the face, not sure he had the strength to until her bright gaze captured his, reading his emotions like an open book.

“I don’t know if he’ll help me,” Rick admitted in careful words. “Or if I’d let him.” It was a two way street now, Rick’s bitterness was just as much a barrier as Daryl’s solid disregard for anything that had to do with him. “I’d try, but I can’t make promises – and this is too important.” Important enough Rick would do the one thing he promised he would never do. He swore he would never step foot on the plot of land that he knew every inch of by heart, walk up to the house that should’ve collapsed in on itself before he was even born, and possibly see the last person on Earth he ever wanted to see.

No matter how much the chance of seeing Daryl again lit up every never-ending in a way that made Rick feel alive for the first time in 6 years.

\--

Dawn had never approached so slowly.

Rick decided around 4:00am that if he could somehow look deep into the recesses of his memories, among the nightmares and dreams that he lived day to day in the Georgia swamp back when he was a teenager, and he could somehow remember the location of Nain’aine’s sister’s place then that might hurt a bit less than actually seeing him. Fuck, Rick would do anything to not go back there. It wasn’t just seeing the other man’s face that was shredding Rick’s insides in apprehension, it was also the unknown aspect of his own reaction if he and Daryl were to see each other face to face once more. Rick was very good at being able to control his emotions and physical actions – especially on the job – but when it came to Daryl Dixon? Rick had no idea what he would do, he knew what would have happened six years ago. He’d have punched him in the face. Knowing that launching himself and kissing the life out of the man would have been out of the question.

Now both weren’t ideal, and Rick liked to think that he would be able to handle himself like the adult he was, but there was a small part of him that wasn’t so sure.

He didn’t walk through the swamp. His car would be needed once he got directions to Nain’aine’s place since it was 20 minutes away, and just the thought of walking that same path through the forest made something cold and painful lodge in Rick’s throat. Everything was already starting off badly, and he hadn’t even left his grandparent’s estate.

The car ride was short, barely 5 minutes, and it was probably way too early to be knocking on the Dixons' door and not get a gut full of buckshot – but Rick wanted to get everything done and out of the way as quick as possible. Like ripping off a band-aid, if the band-aid was made with Gorilla Glue and was attached to an open wound on his chest. The sun was fully risen when he parked in the gravel lot, for what it was worth. He made sure he was in a good position to just peel out of the steep drive without hitting the same four vehicles that had occupied the space since Rick had last left. Merle’s rusted red pick-up, his Triumph with the anti-Semitic stickers, Old Man Dixon’s four door with the chrome missing, and the twins’ POS Toyota – though the Toyota looked to be no longer running as a vehicle and was missing pieces. Cinder blocks replaced two of the tires and the hood was permanently propped open with half the engine on the ground around it. Rick stepped out of his car into the morning light, not prepared for the familiar breeze that gushed through the lot as soon as he stood up with both feet planted in the gravel, for the nostalgic smells of Spanish moss and burned wood and engine oil to fill his lungs and help him breathe easier. For the soft chimes of the glass and bones clanging together on the raised alter, the sight of the old tin house covered in bits of green and the forest merging in places to replace where the structure was deteriorating. There were no sounds coming from inside, everyone probably still fast asleep and working through a hangover. It made Rick smirk thinking how much it was going to hurt them when he knocked on their door at a quarter to 8 in the morning. And also at how it was so much like playing with fire, the thrill and danger seeped into the very ground he stood on bringing back memories and emotions and a sense of calm that Rick also hadn’t been prepared for. But he used it to propel himself forward until he was crossing the hollow porch that creaked under his boots and straight up to the front door.

It did feel strange knocking, though, because every time before that moment he had always just walked right on in. Or snuck around the side to climb through Daryl’s window. Knocking felt too much like inviting trouble, so he did a quick three-rap that probably sounded too much like a cop (which he was, and that also made a smile twitch at his lips) before he backed up until he was off the porch. Just in case someone came out waving a 12-gauge.

Merle didn’t look half-bad for being up so early in the morning, bleary eyed and only half homicidal. That was until his narrowed gaze finally landed on Rick, standing at the bottom of the porch steps with his hands in his pockets and a small smirk fighting to break out across his face, then those angry blue eyes got real wide.

“Well fuck me,” he drawled, words slurred enough to show he was still a little drunk. “Ya gotta be shittin’ me, someone must’a spik’d m’drink las’ nite cause I know ya ain’t who I think ya are.”

“You got a minute?” Rick asked, not able to fight the tilt to his lips anymore now that Merle’s own twisted version of a smile was crawling across his face. No matter how much of a dick Merle Dixon was, Rick couldn’t help but have missed him – just a little bit.

“Fer you, city boy, I got two.” He chuckled, looking back into the living room for a split second before he shut the door and half staggered, half sauntered down the steps to meet Rick in the gravel lot. “Make’it snappy tho, twins hear ya out here they gonna wake up the whole house. Old Man should be out til noon if we’re lucky.”

“Heard you got rid of him for 10 months,” Rick congratulated with a grin, still having to look up at Merle as he towered over him – all muscle and 100% angry backwoods hillbilly. “Must’a been nice.”

“You got no idea,” Merle outright laughed. “Fuckin’ party central up ‘n here.” His laugh died down after a moment, and he pulled out a pack of cigarettes to light one up and regard Rick as best he could while still probably not seeing too straight. Which was a feat that was amazing to witness, and Rick was reminded like a slap to the face that the last time he had seen Merle Dixon he had cut off his hand. The older man had an astounding amount of strength and reflex in his left hand, fishing out the pack and knocking a cigarette loose in well practiced movements, and using the muscle of his forearm and wrist as easily as if it were a hand caught in an oven mit. Enough to balance and maneuver a lighter and the pack effortlessly, stuffing them back in his pocket while he puffed smoke out of the corner of his mouth until his only hand was free to snag the burning stick. “What’cha need?”

“Got a problem at my grandparents’ place.” Rick said quietly, suddenly distracted by the blend of cigarette smoke in the humid Georgia air and how fucking comforting it was. It pulled at his heart strings for all of a few seconds before he steeled himself once more and locked eyes with Merle to hold his attention. “Whatev’r Daryl’s been doin’ over there ain’t helpin’ anymore, an’ from what my Gan’ma says he ain’t been around much lately either – it’s gettin’ bad and I want ta do somethang about it before I head back home.” Merle puffed smoke out consistently until the morning sun caught on the fumes and showed how it swarmed around them, his blank expression the closest to thoughtful the man was ever going to get.

He huffed a humorless laugh, though the side of his mouth still tilted up around his cigarette. “Thought ya’d wan’ta stay away from ma baby brother.” He muttered around the filter, breathing out another cloud at the end of his statement. “Aft’r everythin’.”

Rick nodded and managed to keep his own face neutral as well. “Well I’m tryin’. Was gonna ask you… about Nain’aine.”

“What about ‘er?”

“Was wonderin’ if I could get directions to her place?” Rick asked, head tilting without meaning to – Merle’s confrontational air affecting his newfound sixth sense as an officer and making him go on the offensive as well. He squared his shoulders, shifted his stance until he was more grounded, and the shock that struck Merle’s expression in that instance was like someone had punched him in the face.

“Holy _shit_ ,” he spat, throwing his cigarette to the ground and putting a good three feet of distance between them, but grinning a mile wide that had something maniacal to it. “Yer a fuckin’ _cop_!”

“Sheriff deputy,” Rick corrected him, trying to relax his stance subtly and not give off whatever vibe had sent Merle off the deep end, he needed the man to help him not hate him. “And I’m off duty, family member died in case ya didn’t hear.”

“Fuckin’ shit,” Merle out-right laughed, volume of his voice getting away from him. “Ya gonna pull me ov’r an’ slap another DUI on me one day? Bust m’face on the sidewalk aft’r a bar fight?”

“Only if ya bust mine first,” Rick said with a smile that promised he’d do just that. “And I’ll probably just drop your ass in the creek down the road and make ya walk home.”

“Pays ta have a pig ‘n the family, huh?” Merle chuckled, and Rick couldn’t hide how his face dropped at simultaneously being stabbed in the fucking chest with emotion that also burst with warmth and nostalgia. He had to look down and scuff his boots on the gravel before Merle noticed the sheen to his eyes.

“Guess so.” Rick drawled, clearing his throat and collecting himself before looking back up at Merle Dixon. “So, I need to talk to Nain’e, see if she can help get the angry spirits out – my Gan’ma is there all alone now so-“

“Nain’e died last year,” came a voice from the porch, and all the pain Rick had been feeling in his chest from the onslaught of memories and sensations of home and bitter emotions that festered through the years was _nothing_ in comparison to how his heart stopped in his chest in that moment. He even froze, still looking at Merle and not sure he could make himself turn to the porch, but he set his jaw and kept his expression blank before he addressed the newcomer still standing in the shadows by the front door. Hell, even Merle gave him a look that just read ‘poor bastard’, which meant he was _fucked_.

Rick knew he himself had changed a bit over the years. He looked decent enough, though – the force had shaped him pretty well from doing all the grunt work the past few years. His hair was a little longer and curling something awful though, and he probably should have shaved before coming over because the faint dusting of dark stubble across his chin and cheeks wasn’t the most professional looking. But his eyes were still bright and piercing, blue as they were, and he’d finally grown into his features sometime after 21 so they now fit his face. He stood up straighter now too, lean and strong and a little tan from all the day shifts he’d been working since he started night classes. He was at least happy with how he looked, knew a few people had interest (especially the girl in his Anthropology class), and he may or may not have worn his favorite pair of jeans that were worn enough to fit him just right and a black T-shirt that got him a free drink once at a bar in Cincinnati. Not that he’d expected to see anyone in particular besides Merle and Nain’e, nope – not at all. He just wanted to make a good impression on the old woman when he saw her again for the first time in 6 years.

And of course, Daryl had just woken up and looked fucking breath-taking.

He looked older, Rick knew he did too but Daryl had grown into his bone structure and features so much better and he was mesmerizing to look at. The face of the boy that he had fallen in love with shifted into a man that had Rick swallowing hard and setting his jaw even tighter to hold a blank expression on his face. Daryl had no problem keeping his face blank, even soft from sleep with his short hair messy and sticking up in the back a little, and the small amount of facial hair he had as a teenager filled out and attractive as fuck around his thin mouth with that _damn_ beauty mark off to the side fully visible. Pale eyes narrowed, still too groggy to have any real expression but he looked drained. A twitch away from the mean squint Merle sported often and his Pa had perfected, something bitter and sad and so tired just beyond the front he was keeping up. But he looked damn good, in a black wife beater and worn jeans that were too big hanging low on his hips despite the belt – arms defined and well worked, fitting his broad shoulders that tapered to a narrow waist that was just mouth-watering to look at. He was fucking gorgeous, and Rick heaved a breath through his nose that shuddered in his chest, and did his very best to not give away that he was checking out his fucking ex like a porterhouse steak at the butcher shop.

And then Daryl’s words, drawled low and gruff and smooth as fucking molasses all at the same time, hit him and Rick’s heart dropped to his stomach.

Nain’aine had passed away.

Daryl was the only one who knew what he was doing anymore, he had no one to turn to and no one to help him if something were to go wrong.

Nain’aine was gone.

“I’m sorry,” Rick told him, because he truly was. He knew how much Nain’e had meant to Daryl, and now he was alone with just his Pa and Merle? No wonder he looked so tired, so emotionally exhausted. There must have been something in his expression that showed how honestly sorry Rick was, beyond condolences and right in line with understanding, because Daryl tore his eyes away and looked at his bare feet as he stuck a cigarette between his teeth and lit it up – just for something to do.

It took him a moment to let the silence hang and begin to get awkward before Rick swallowed his pride and cleared his throat, doing his best to keep looking at Daryl while he was addressing him without soaking in the sight like a dry sponge. “Will you help?”

It took way too much for Rick to say those three words.

Especially when all he got was the most unimpressed stare from Daryl fucking Dixon, that practically had ‘why should I’ stamped on his fucking forehead. And just like that the scowl was easier to form on Rick’s face, pulling at his lips until thinly veiled anger was settled across his features, and _oh_ did Daryl react to that. Rick had never seen Daryl _sneer_ before, but he’d seen Merle do it multiple times and it was painfully obvious they were related in that moment. If he knew how to laugh Rick would bet he’d be giggling like a hyena.

“Ain’t nuthin gonna get that house clean,” Daryl told him around his cigarette, still not stepping off the porch as if the two steps separating them would be enough of a barrier and Rick wouldn’t just race up there and strangle him. “Too crowd’d, once one shows up so do the rest.”

“Fine,” Rick ground out through clenched teeth. “I don’t need them all gone, just a’couple.”

“Ain’t a fuckin’ vendin’ machine either,” Daryl spat back, Rick’s anger brushing against his own and making it rise to the surface. “Can’ jus’ pick an’ choose wha’ ya wanna take out.”

“There’s somethang really bad in that house,” Rick insisted angrily but Daryl just barreled on.

“Of’course there is!” He near shouted, and Rick wasn’t ready for the outburst. “Damn place ‘s _haunt’d_ Rick. It’s like an op’n wound – it’s always gonna be infect’d wit’ somethin’. I yank out one bad spirit somethin’ worse will prob’bly show up.”

“This one is hurting her,” Rick told him with more controlled rage and danger than Daryl had probably ever heard him speak. Rick had shot people, been shot at, pulled dying people and corpses from cars alike. He'd almost died far too many times after Daryl Dixon had chased him away for him to not have that voice of authority and reason that spoke above all others. Even Daryl. Who had quieted and wasn’t even smoking to mask the silence, just held the burning cigarette near his mouth and regarded Rick for a moment while his expression flirted with worry and guilt. “Been scratching at her arms, think it yanked her out of bed too cause there’s bruises all over – shaped like fingers.”

Daryl tossed his half smoked cigarette to the ground, a quiet “shit” uttered with an exhale and his expression searching as it looked down at the splintered floorboards of their front porch. His hand carded through his hair while he stayed silent, as if contemplating, but Rick knew Daryl wasn’t going to let whatever was in the plantation house continue hurting his Grandmother. If anything he was searching for what it might be, and if it was his fault it had started hurting her.

Because that’s who Daryl fucking was.

Even after the screaming match they had when they were eighteen, where Daryl claimed to not give two shits about his home town and everyone in it, Daryl was still so painfully _himself._ It stretched Rick's heartstrings to their limit and he had to once again stamp down on the memories. The pride. The thing that felt too much like love that he wanted to set fire to and watch burn there in the Dixon lot.

Daryl fucking cared, he always would, he cared so much it was going to kill him one day.

And it was no long Rick’s responsibility to watch out for that day.

Daryl made that perfectly clear years ago.

“I want it out, Daryl,” Rick told him, level and firm. “I want her safe. I know you ain’t gonna do this for me, so do it for her. I’ll be gone in two days and you’ll never have ta see me again.”

“Ya said that las’ time,” Daryl pointed out with a huff and a glare, but he rolled his shoulders – like he always did before he had to go do something that made him uncomfortable as fuck – and turned back towards the door. “I’ll be there ‘round noon, gonna need candles and a shit ton of rock salt. I’ll bring the rest.”

Rick nodded, squaring his own stance once more, and almost turned away but stopped himself enough to cut a quick glance at the man who still affected him far more than he should. “Thank you.”

“Pff,” Daryl scoffed, shouldering into the house aggressively and not saying anything else or returning to where Rick could see him. Rick couldn’t control the angry sigh that escaped him after that, apparently being a fucking dick was a hereditary trait in the Dixon family.

“He miss’d you, too,” Merle said much too close behind him, and Rick whirled around and almost walked right into the other Dixon’s chest. He jumped back a few feet but Merle was already sauntering towards the house as well. “Ain’t seen ‘im anythin’ less than miserable in years.”

“How long has he been that much of an asshole?” Rick ground out before he could stop himself.

“Since always,” Merle shot back with a grin creeping up the side of his face. “Thinkin’ ya just weren’t payin’ attention ta his mouth back then, or at leas’ the words comin’ out of it.”

Rick’s face went bright red, “Shut up, Merle!”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP MERLE!” came Daryl’s embarrassed holler from deep inside the house, in tandem with his own shout, and the combined yelling only made the older Dixon laugh in mirth and look so damn happy it was contagious.

“Fina’lly sounds like home,” Merle grinned cheekily, and let the screen door bang loudly behind him for good measure as he left Rick alone in the lot.

And angry as he still was, Rick couldn’t help but agree with him.


	3. Far From Over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This particular chapter is dedicated to Miss Riastarstruck for her birthday <3 I'm glad I was able to get it out (hopefully in time!) so Happy Birthday dear C:
> 
> Not a lot to say about this one, except I had a lot of fun writing action and horror again :) and _drama_ dear God these boys. Lots of feelings - but to be fair Rick is dealing with a lot XD his grandpappy is dead, Daryl's there and gorgeous and an asshole, and there's something wrong with the house so... he's having a tough time. Be gentle with him.
> 
> Thank you again all you lovely people who have been so dedicated and leave me all the comments and kudos, and thank you to the people who decided to recently give this a shot and left amazing comments that have seriously made my week so much better. I hope you all enjoy this chapter as well! And also huge thanks to my beta The_Royal_Gourd who got this hella late and still worked magic and reeled me in so I didn't spill Rick's feelings all over the page, I tend to get tunnel vision in that area, thank you so much you amazing human being <3
> 
> Alright, here we go

\--

\--

As far as his mother was concerned Rick hadn’t left the plantation road the entire time he’d been in White Oak that week – which was the only thing he had going for him when he tried to convince her to leave the estate for a few hours. Rick had no idea how long it would take Daryl to assess the house and do something to cleanse it, but he really hoped it wouldn’t take longer than that because the last thing he needed was his Mother giving Daryl that angry disapproving stare she was _so_ good at the entire time he was there.

Not that Daryl didn’t deserve it, but Rick needed the younger Dixon to actually help them – and his Mother verbally or non-verbally (he didn’t know which would be worse) protecting her one and only son from the man who had caused him so much hurt wasn’t going to aid the situation. It appeared that Daryl actually did still give a shit, at least about Rick’s Grandmother, and Rick did his best to not be upset about that. It would be so much easier to hate him if Daryl was every inch the selfish, bigoted asshole he tried to pretend to be – though the bullshit façade kept Rick’s rage burning like a fire in his chest. He really wished he could tell Daryl to his face how full of shit he was. That Rick could still see right through him, but once again that wouldn’t help convince the Dixon to stay and help them get rid of the troublesome spirits wandering their halls. So Rick would keep his mouth shut when Daryl did grace them with his presence, though he could make no promises that he would be able to be anything more than professionally tolerable to the other man.

“Are you sure yer okay stayin’ here all day,” his Mother tried to ask again for the hundredth time that morning, this time with her purse strap over her shoulder and her shoes already on. She was planning on making a round trip through town to the Walsh’s, Greene’s, and the little home-owned grocer on Main Street to pick up some things for supper – but with the way she and Mrs. Walsh got on, it was more than likely going to be an all day affair. And the Greene’s would insist on her staying for a few minutes to visit and chat, which would turn into an hour at least. She’d be gone until at least 4, he hoped, so as long as Daryl was on time they would have the entire afternoon to work with the house.

“I’m _sure,_ Mom,” Rick told her with only a little exasperation, rolling his eyes as he leaned against the doorframe, leaving the double doors open to remind her she was just on her way out. “Don’ really got anywhere else I want ta be, we’ll be fine without ya for a bit. I got this.” He could almost physically see the awareness and recognition cross his Mother’s face as she really looked at him standing there in his good jeans with two day old stubble across his cheeks, how she was painfully reminded that Rick wasn’t a kid anymore – and though he had said those _exact_ same words to her time and time again as a teenager, too young to even drive yet, in that moment it was more true than it ever had been.

“You always do,” she told him sadly, pulling him in to kiss his cheek and pat the rough patches there. “Ya need ta shave, though.”

Rick couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Yes, ma’am,” he promised, and shooed her out the door not a moment later, closing the double doors and leaning against them heavily. Now he just had to keep his Grandmother out of her bedroom, preferably in the kitchen where there was more light and something to keep her occupied, and wait for Daryl to get there so he could look over the house. He also had to do all this while keeping his cool, not focusing on the _last_ time that Daryl had been in the house (damp from the rain, wearing his clothes, soft and clean and so damn happy to see him in his quiet way that made Rick’s heart melt), and also without breaking something in a blind fit of rage because all the emotions inside his head and chest were too much to handle sometimes. Because there was more important shit going on than Rick’s damn feelings, like keeping his Grandmother safe, and making sure Daryl didn’t turn tail and run because Rick couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Even if Daryl started it.

Being an adult _sucked_.

\--

Rick opened every window in the kitchen as soon as the air warmed enough to only push a soft breeze into the house instead of the chill from the night, and propped the door to the mudroom open as well with a stone on either side – in case something might be lingering that would want to shut it for them – that let fresh air filter through the open archway and through the now bright kitchen. The natural air and light helped lighten the space, made it a little easier to breathe, and the sweet-rot scents of the swamp carried on the breeze with magnolia and fresh cut grass. The combination filled his lungs as he opened the last window above the sink, and for just a moment a sense of peace settled through him and he could forget what was about to happen.

But the breeze also carried sounds, the cicadas in the trees and the leaves rustling together loudly made a calming white noise that was only interrupted by the far away roar of a motorcycle. Growing steadily louder, and dread soon seeped back into his chest and caught there like a bad cold. Rick sighed, breathed one last heavy breath of fresh air before he would once again be stuck navigating the dusty halls of the plantation house with Daryl fucking Dixon.

“I’ll go get ‘im,” Rick muttered, just loud enough for his Grandmother to hear – the old woman giving him an unimpressed look as he started for the hallway. “Stay here?”

“Got no choice, I s’pose,” she grumbled, picking through her basket of drying sage for strands that could be used for smudging. “You be nice ta him, Ricky.”

“Got no choice,” Rick mimicked with a humourless laugh. “We need him.” Though his sass earned him a glare and his Grandmother pointing a finger at him menacingly.

“I mean it,” she told him sternly and forcefully, full of promise of the world of hurt she would level on him if he disobeyed her.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Rick opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch before Daryl had even gotten all the way up the winding gravel drive. It was just about noon, right on time – which shouldn’t have made Rick feel anything but it did – and the sun was blocked out by the steady flow of grey clouds that rolled across the sky in soft gradients that promised rain later that evening. Everything was still bright, though, humid and heavy with the oncoming storm; making the air hard to breathe, though Rick doubted that was why he was having difficulty getting oxygen in his lungs. He leaned against the porch banister once more, watching Daryl glide along the twists and turns until he pulled up next to Rick’s little four door, and he was suddenly struck with the thought that he had never seen Daryl drive over to his grandparent’s estate. They lived just a short one mile walk through the swamp, so the few times Rick had seen Daryl on the grounds they had always gotten there through the invisible trails in the forest. In fact, the only time that Daryl might have driven over when they were teenagers would have been when he disappeared for a year when they were in high school, and the redneck had come back to steal him away that September – a fool’s hope that Rick would still be there and not back home in Kentucky. That was the year before Rick kissed Daryl in the front seat of Merle’s pickup truck, before anything wonderful and terrible had happened, before Rick’s word had been turned upside down and his heart shattered into pieces so devastated he couldn’t put them back together.

All because of the man that was now walking towards him, his confident stride faltering when he noticed that Rick had been watching him intently. Rick knew his own face was carefully blank, arms crossed and shoulder pressed hard into the porch banister to keep him upright, the strength of the house grounding him and helping quell the storm behind his eyes. Like hell was Rick going to show one inch of how much the Dixon affected him, what it did to him just seeing Daryl standing there at the bottom of the porch steps with his hair a mess from the bike ride and looking carelessly disheveled, wearing the same jeans he’d had on earlier and a faded plaid button down with the sleeves ripped off. Rick hoped his gaze didn’t look as hungry as he thought it did, suddenly feeling really fucking thirsty as his eyes traced over the exposed collar bones and tan arms that were far too defined for him to not swallow hard, broad shoulders speckled in faint sun freckles that were so endearing Rick hated himself a little. Or a lot, fuck he really hated himself right now, because Daryl was an asshole and that should deter him enough from looking the other man up and down like he wanted to eat him. But it didn’t. God - _fucking_ -damnit.

“I ain’t late,” Daryl ground out, making Rick finally look him in the face, which was only going to make things worse so he steeled himself for the pale blue eyes and sharp cheekbones, the scowl on his face that was _not_ cute – it was aggravating. “So stop lookin’at me like tha’.” In fact the more Rick looked at him, the more the initial appraisal of approval (because holy fuck was he nice to look at) turned to an angry mournful feeling at the memories the lines of Daryl’s face brought to the surface, hitting him one after another in waves that churned his stomach so much it made him sick. And that was easier to hold on to, forcing the deputy to set his jaw hard to counter the nausea and clench his hands into fists.

“No you ain’t,” Rick agreed in a quiet drawl, spoken evenly and with little emotion, and he was kind of proud of that. “Mom’s gone for the afternoon, so ya don’t have to deal with her, but we only got a few hours.” There was a fleeting twitch to Daryl’s features, a shift in his stance, that might have been the redneck relaxing a bit – about to show gratitude before he schooled his expression back into something lightly annoyed and aggressively nonchalant. Forced, much like Rick’s own expression.

He nodded once, stiffly, allowing that brief show of appreciation in the most closed off way. “Let’s ge’ start’d then.” He walked up the steps towards Rick like he was bracing for impact, as if Rick would suddenly change his mind and punch the younger man in the teeth just to see him fall down the steps, and somewhere in the violent corner of his mind Rick smirked in approval of the visual. But he was going to be an adult here, he told himself that all morning and all last night, so when Daryl paused on the porch finally standing close enough for Rick to see the color in his eyes Rick tore his gaze away and led the way into the house.

Or tried to.

He shouldered past the doorway, and held the giant old oak doors open wide for the other man, only to watch him try to duck into the house – and bounce back as if he had just run into a wall. Hitting whatever was there just as hard, a red mark blooming across the bridge of his nose and a distant look of pain in his wide blue eyes like someone had punched him in the face, and Rick’s widened as well in shock as a small trail of blood started to drip from his nose. “Son’uva’ _bitch_!” Daryl spat, fingers going up to wipe at the light spotting of blood, glaring at the empty doorway in surprise and agitation. “Y’gotta be kiddin’ me,” he ground out, dragging the back of his hand under his nose to get rid of the excess blood with an irritated snarl tearing at his lips. His whole body swiveling back, feet shifting and resetting into a steadier stance, squaring off as if he was about to fight the damn house for attacking him.

And Rick couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up out of his throat if his life had depended on it.

Not even Daryl’s wild pale blue eyes snapping over to him stopped the small smile that pulled up one side of Rick’s lips, a mix of incredulousness and nostalgic joy hitting him hard. It was hard to remember what a physical hold this unseen force had on the world around him until it was blaring and real in the broad light of day, and it seemed glaringly so with the other man’s presence so close to him. For one moment everything that had been dragging his heart down to the bottom of his stomach got chased away by the surprise, the painfully wonderful element of the paranormal, the knee-jerk reaction that was so Daryl, and Rick forgot himself.

It was probably the first time Rick had looked at Daryl with anything other than a guarded expression or thinly veiled anger since he’d seen him that morning.

“Guess that’s not gonna work, huh?” Rick chuckled in his deeper tones, drawl light and warm, and it wasn’t until after he spoke the words that he realized they were too companionable and he hadn’t wanted to give Daryl that. Daryl had looked down and away from his bright eyes and loose smile, wiping at his face a second time in search of fresh blood, to make it look like he had something better to do. But Rick had seen his own surprise soften and give way to the despondence beneath like bruises, watched as that wall was put back up brick by brick until Daryl was every inch the man that had sneered at him in the Dixon lot – and then the moment was gone. Daryl traced the door frame as if in search of something, gaze hardened once more and inspecting every inch of the entryway.

He didn’t answer Rick, just carefully ran his fingertips over the carved witches mark, long digits dirt stained and entrancing to watch until he dragged his hand away and stared into the open space with determination. Very slowly, Daryl brought his hand up and pressed his palm against an invisible barrier, flat with fingers splayed and so obviously touching something they couldn’t see that Rick felt his own heart rate start to pick up.

“Will inviting you in help?”

“No,” Daryl muttered, and Rick could see how he pressed harder against the barrier, muscles in his forearms flexing with the effort. “No’ this time.”

Rick paused, looking around the foyer over his shoulder and then letting his gaze sweep back to the porch and beyond. Sun was still high, breeze still inviting and light, everything the opposite of the dark shadows and unnaturally still night that had plagued all of their other encounters with the spirits of the house. The only thing that had been separating them before Rick opened the door – was the door itself. And with that thought he got an idea, but he had learned long ago from the man standing in front of him that he should never voice his ideas out loud. No use trying to trick a spirit if you tell them your plan in the first place, they were dead not stupid.

“C’mon,” Rick said as he shouldered past Daryl – passing through the doorway with no issue and no residual sensation, he had half expected to feel a cold chill or a shiver race down his spine – and closed the door behind him with a fixed click of the lock. The rift between him and Daryl was so distinctive, so physical, that he knew the redneck felt it too when he walked too close into his space and right back out before he led the way down the steps and around the side of the house.

It only took a split second for Daryl to follow him, just a step behind, as in sync as the day they had parted. Rick could also feel the bristled energy as the redneck failed at biting his tongue and finally grumbled out, “Ya know I hate’it when ya don’ tell me shit-“

“Like where we’re going?” Rick finished for him, not looking back and probably being a little too petty and not a bit like the adult he promised himself he was going to be. “Yeah, I remember.” It was more than likely why he was doing it in the first place, though he wasn’t going to tell Daryl that, he just kept his mouth shut and brought them around to the open mudroom door where it was still letting the open breeze flow into his Grandparents’ kitchen. It had been airing out all the suffocating energy that filled the space so thickly before, letting in the sunshine and fresh air tinted with flavors of the swamp, and just like jumping in a determined current in the ocean Rick followed the soft breeze right into the mudroom and on towards the bright kitchen.

And Daryl followed, not breaking stride until he passed through the back doorway and then slowed. Rick turned to look at him, to make sure he hadn’t gotten stuck again, but he was still moving – just a bit slower, and staring at him with this unreadable expression that had hints of the way he used to look at Rick when they were younger.

Rick couldn’t stand it.

“Why w’s the door op’n?” Daryl finally asked, tone accusing as if Rick had somehow conspired with the spirits though they both knew that was impossible, which just proved Rick’s theory that the other man was _so_ full of shit.

“Airing out the kitchen, so Gan’ma had somewhere safe,” Rick told him matter-of-factly, with a slight tilt to his head that probably gave away his annoyed anger at Daryl acting like a fucking child. “ _Someone_ once told me that light an’ fresh air helps clear out the space.” Daryl had narrowed his eyes at Rick when his tone changed to something more condescending, huffed a dismissive sniff and looked away again instead of acknowledging his attempts at keeping his Grandmother in one piece instead of several slivers. Even the wind flowing like a gentle stream through the short hallway and on into the other room wasn’t cooling their raised tempers, and Rick had to once again be the bigger person and nod towards the open archway that led further into the house. They had shit to do and Rick was already getting real tired of the push and pull of Daryl’s attitude, there was no pleasing him and no making him in any way comfortable so the easiest thing on all of them was to get started and try to put all the rest behind them. Even though the feelings stuck to Rick’s hands like mud and stained everything he touched, every bit of him feeling more and more filthy the longer he stayed in Daryl’s presence.

“They wouldn’t let ‘im in the front door,” Rick said by way of greeting when he spotted his Grandmother in the same place he’d left her. It was also then that Rick realized that when he spoke to Daryl in anger he tended to annunciate more, not let his words slur with his Southern Kentucky twang – which was the opposite of Daryl, whose backwoods drawl got so bad when he yelled he might as well be speaking a different language. He was real glad Daryl hadn’t gotten that mad yet, he had a feeling there was a cruelness in him now that spewed words that stuck like tar. Every word he spoke was already seared in Rick’s mind since the moment he’d met the youngest Dixon, he didn’t need more added with that level of hate behind them.

“Not surpris’d,” his Grandmother sighed, still picking through the dried sage leaves and only looking up from where she’d bundled a good sized set with twine. “Probab’ly doesn’ help yer home now either sweetheart, they like ya bett’r.” She leaned back in her chair to look around her grandson and get a line of sight with Daryl standing in the archway. “H’llo stranger,” she smiled at him good naturedly, though the quiet greeting made the younger man look down at his feet until he could control his features, something that might have been shame fluttering across them but Rick hadn’t been watching too closely. Only seeing how the other man cut a look at her as he approached where she sat, something fond and teasing in his gaze as he did.

“Ya holdin’ up alrigh’?” he asked with more warmth than Rick thought the other was capable of, and he had to keep his distance and hide how his angry expression dropped. Daryl’s pale blue eyes traced over the bandages all along her arms without reaching for them, though his fingers twitched at his sides with the intention.

His Grandmother followed his stare and tilted her head in true Grimes fashion when she looked back up at where he stood beside her. “Been bett’r,” she answered honestly, “they been getti’ restless wit’out ya showin’ yer handsome face ‘round here. Some things need mor’ th’n couple pretty spells and you _strippin_ ’ ta paint yerself wit’ all sorts’s oils an’ m-”

“ _Gan’ma_!” Rick blanched, staring incredulously at the two of them – Daryl looking embarrassed to hell and his Grandmother merely arching an eyebrow in his direction. “Save yer flirtin’ fer _after_ I leave?” he added as smooth as he could past the shock on his own face, he had learned a thing or two about being quick with the comebacks from the guys at the station – a lot of them were a hell of a lot smarter than he was. “And Pappy’s barely ‘n the ground, too,” he added with a scolding tone and a smirk twitching at his lips that didn’t match his wide eyes. Daryl swayed backwards, body curving away from his grandmother even though he huffed a scoff and sent a half-hearted glare Rick’s direction.

“You two done?” he asked before Rick’s Grandmother could open her mouth and retort in what was probably a terribly inappropriate fashion – if the last few days had taught Rick anything – so he was grateful Daryl let him win that round by default. “Go’ a job ta do, righ’?” It was spoken in a reminder of why they were there, before Rick and his Grandmother could make more jokes at his expenses, but it definitely shifted something in the air when he did.

“Don’ know wha’cha gonna be able to do this time,” Rick’s Grandmother told him with a solemn look that radiated from her striking eyes. They were so like Rick’s own, a Grimes family trait, though he hadn’t quite mastered the stare that could pierce one’s soul – see right through you to what was hidden beneath. God he wished he could sometimes, because there was something knowing in her gaze when she looked up at Daryl and Rick would’ve given a limb to know what she saw within him. “I kno’ yer Nain’e had a few ideas fer cleansing the house, but I think we’re past helpin’ this old beast.”

“She jus’ needs a polish,” Daryl told her just as quiet and steady. “Littl’ attention an’ it’ll light’n up ‘n here.” Rick knew those words, he’d heard someone say it years ago, and he tilted his head a bit in thought – trying to remember if it had been Nain’e, or possibly Merle. But it sounded like something the old woman would say, her words channeling through the young Dixon at just the mere mention of her religious title. Daryl probably still spoke to her, just as he did with his Mother, and in a fleeting moment Rick wondered if Daryl had tried to talk to him when he wasn’t there. He knew he had shouted at Daryl in the quiet confines of his apartment more than once, cursed his name like a prayer the first few months – it might as well have been branded on his skin.

The soft smile his Grandmother gave Daryl was not condescending, though she looked as if she didn’t believe his Zen-like optimism in their current situation. “Yer the expert, dear,” her words making Daryl scoff and roll his eyes as he swiveled to sit on the edge of the table. “Though I don’ think it’ll be an easy  fix, an’ certainly ain’t a quick one.”

“We’ll giv’er a once ov’r,” Daryl told her as he kept his eyes on the ground and not on Rick as purposefully as possible even though he was now facing him. Instead he reached over for the bundle of sage that Rick’s Grandmother had finished binding and inspected it thoroughly with an approved hum of admiration. “See wha’ needs ta be done b’fore we star’ makin’ long term plans.” Rick nodded once in agreement, eyes still darting between his grandmother and Daryl though the old woman was the only one who looked up at his motion – he was sure Daryl had seen it though because they both shot forward when his Grandmother made to stand.

“Not you,” Rick told her with his hands up placatingly, matching the movement of Daryl reaching out to gently do the same, and the little quirk at the corner of her mouth at their in tandem motions made Rick scowl. The small smirk morphed into something more patronizing as she half glared at them both.

“Oh _really?_ Ya gonna stop me? I can walk through m’own damn house,” she informed them snappishly, making Daryl’s shoulders stiffen until his whole body was still as stone, and Rick was struck with the difference from one moment to the next. How living in that house with his brother and his Pa the last few years had changed him. On his perception of people, his interactions with them. Rick didn’t want to even imagine what the Dixons had been up to in the six years he’d been absent, but he could see the rough calluses that were seared into Daryl’s very essence as he stood in that bright kitchen. Even with the fresh breeze and the humid freshness of the swamp clinging to every corner, Daryl created this rift of tension and defensive hostility like he could snap in an instant, he would so intensely shatter the atmosphere and Rick needed to keep hold of the situation. His grandmother was still hurt, there was still something lingering in the dark hallways and dusty rooms of the plantation house, and without her husband’s presence to counter the dead things that clung to the walls Rick didn’t want to think about what might happen to her when she was all alone. Rick hadn’t even known he’d stepped further forward until after words started to pour from his mouth.

“We know,” he answered in his best calming voice, and with as much respect in his carefully controlled tone. It was something he had perfected from his years on the force, being able to speak evenly and appeal to whoever they were trying to calm or dissuade. Out of the two of them, Rick was much more comforting than Shane, so he usually ended up as the one that talked people down from whatever situation they found themselves in. “But we’d feel better if ya stayed here, just until we smudge the downstairs? Make it a little more breathable,” he added with a small smile. The whole first floor had turned stifling as the morning had progressed, hence his first instinct to open all the windows in the kitchen.

 She ticked her head to the side, staring down her grandson until the combined tension wafting from her and Daryl clashed like thunder clouds. It was even making Rick’s muscles start to knot and ache with how still he was holding himself. 

“Please,” he continued, trying to ease a bit of humor into the one word and appear more young in hopes it would help not piss off his Grandmother further. She was not helpless, but Rick really would feel better without her following him and Daryl through the halls – despite how much he didn’t want to be left alone with Daryl Dixon.

She huffed a long breath through her nose, “fine.” She sat back down in her chair with her stare unwavering. “But I’m on’ta you.”

“I’d be disappoint’d if ya weren’t,” Rick told her with a smile that was probably too bright and might have shaken a little – because holy _fuck_ , if he feared anyone in that damn house it was probably his Grandmother. And he just talked her down like a perp with a gun in hand.

At that point he probably would have taken a gun pointed his direction instead of his Grandmother’s defiant stare.

It was all instinct that drove him to catch Daryl’s gaze like nothing had changed, to nod towards the hallway with a quiet but firm “C’mon,” as if they weren’t uncomfortable and on-edge and the very sight of the Dixon in his kitchen wasn’t twisting Rick’s insides in the best and worst of ways. How they moved at the same time, how Daryl fell into step right behind him so easily, after he snagged the bundled sage off the table. Rick led them out of the bright kitchen into the shadowed hallways that were too warm and stifling and smelled of years worth of dust, that were obviously already occupied and were heavy with another presence, the walls and silence pressing in on them so heavily Rick’s chest started to constrict. His thoughts thundered through his head with the sound of his heartbeat, ricocheted off the walls surrounding them until they were deafening as gunshots, and it wasn’t until they hit the entryway that Daryl hadn’t been able to enter not 20 minutes before that  Rick was able to breathe past everything. He couldn’t help glancing back, seeing Daryl standing those two steps behind him with a question badly masked in his attempt at a neutral face – because Daryl was confused with his behavior too. Rick couldn’t shake the natural instinct to just fall in line with Daryl Dixon, in body, in mind, in some desperate part of his soul that wanted so badly to aline like stars in the Georgia sky. It was too easy, Rick almost didn’t get a say in the matter, it kept happening again and again as if it was a part of him that moved on its own accord. As essential as breathing, or the incessant beat of his heart.

And it wasn’t fucking fair.

Rick had gathered the bags of rock-salt and candles in the entryway, piled up on one of the display cabinets for whatever Daryl might want to do with them, and Rick nodded towards them to direct the redneck’s unrelenting stare. For trying so damn hard to keep his expression as indifferent as he possibly could, Daryl’s features were insanely easy to read sometimes and it was driving Rick crazy. The guarded look in his pale blue eyes showing the questions whirling through his head that he’d never voice aloud, every tense muscle in his arms and shoulders giving away his worry and warring comfort level in Rick’s presence, and every twitch in his mouth and jaw speaking more than words. Rick had known Daryl _so well_ when they were young, so much so that the slightest shifting of weight from one foot to the other spoke as loud as a scream in the quiet space. It was _killing_ him that he kept seeing those same tells, the same unspoken words and emotions so stark like they were written in ink on his skin, because lacing every thrilling sense of elation that was paired with _knowing_ the other so instinctually were words that _had_ been spoken aloud to him. So profound and devastating that they destroyed every nostalgic notion that threatened to warm the coldness in his chest.

_I **know** you-_

_No you don’t. You never did._

Fresh air hit his lungs before Rick even realized he’d turned heel and walked straight outside, burst out the double doors onto the porch and down the steps until his bare feet hit the grass and he could combine the grounding freshness of the trimmed lawns with the late summer sunshine. The breeze seeped through his black shirt and curled up under the hems of his jeans, ruffled his curls as it gushed between the trees and the house, and all the noise was chased away on the wind for just one moment from inhale to exhale. For a split second he could breathe, blissful silence filled his head, and all the words were drowned in the sensations – until quick footsteps followed him, a Southern drawl cut through to him in sharp awareness, and the world came crashing back.

“-ick?” Daryl hadn’t stepped off the porch, but the tenseness in his words were tethered to the house and stretched like cobwebs, suffocating to even hear. “Rick wha’ happ’nd? Was somethin’ there?” Rick had always been very in tune with the house, connected to it in a way that was not healthy and Daryl used to tell him it scared him to death, and it reflected in his voice even then – six years later. His worry about Rick’s unhealthy relationship with the things that haunted the halls, and Daryl was still too obsessed with the spirits that stained the property to consider it wasn’t a factor this time. That this time it was him, and not some ghost. Rick didn’t even want to turn and look at him, because his words were easier to deal with, he could hold on to the anger and hate when he wasn’t getting lost in Daryl Dixon’s face. In his earnest attempts while still trying to keep his walls up, how they crumbled when he stood too close to Rick, when his whole being shined bright and hot and blinded Rick of all the hurt he’d had to suffer through the past few years all because of a man with a bent Florida license plate and a crooked grin. _No you don’t. You never did. Moreau made sure’a that._

“Jus’ give me a minute,” Rick managed to say, even and breathless and lost on the wind. Not turning around to look at the man on the porch.

“Wha’ did it do?” Daryl growled out, his voice growing angry and protective and _louder_ as he drew closer, taking a few of the steps towards the grass but Rick must’ve physically tensed up because he stopped. “Did it say somethin’?”

“No,” Rick told him sternly, through clenched teeth and on an exhale. “Go back inside an’ give me’a minute-” He just needed a second to ground himself, enough that he could get through the next couple hours.

But Daryl’s silence and stare was as physical and resonating as a drum beat, “…ya sure-“

“I’m _sure_ ,” Rick barked, long fingers curling into his palm so tightly his knuckles turned white. _Fuck_ , he got outside to get _away_ from Daryl for _two fucking seconds_ before he snapped and broke his fucking face just so he wouldn’t have to-

“’Cause I think yer a lyin’ sack of shit,” he growled out, stare burning into the back of Rick’s head. “Ya coul’ nev’r hide anythin’ from me, always written all over yer face,” there was nothing fond about the way he said it, but it singed the edges of his words and that made Rick want to fucking _scream_. The younger man waited only another beat of silence that felt like thunder. “Damnit _look’it me_! If tha’ damn house is makin’ ya stay out here ta try and keep us from doing anythin’ then I need ta fuckin’ know!” Daryl shouted harshly.

“IT ISN’T THE DAMN HOUSE!” Rick finally snapped as he whirled and glared up at Daryl, blue eyes blazing with rage. “I JUST CAN’T LOOK AT YER FUCKIN’ FACE!”

Daryl had his mouth open like he was going to scream back until what Rick said crashed into him full force, Rick could physically see it hit him as he choked on any words he could’ve spat in that moment, his whole expression frozen in shock and confusion and residual anger – and it was a mess that Rick couldn’t decipher with his own incredulousness stretched so thin. What was so difficult to understand, it was like Daryl didn’t expect him to be _upset_ , that somehow this wasn’t hard for him. And _fuck_ Rick wished that was true but it _wasn’t_ and Daryl needed to stop being a colossal jackass about the whole situation. His rage propelled him forward, and Daryl’s lack of reaction only helped further it until he continued the angry shouting out on his grandparents’ front porch. “SO GIVE ME A GODDAMN MINUTE AN’ I’LL BE BACK IN A SEC!” Rick’s head was at that dangerous angle, peering up at Daryl with eyes so clouded in anger that they looked almost black, his features finally free of the schooled expression he’d been sporting all morning. He knew his pain and misery was painted across his face plain as day without it, and that just pissed him off more, but Daryl had fallen blessedly silent and his mouth had snapped shut. He still looked the most wretched kind of reserved and quietly hostile, but he only stared at Rick for another moment that stretched far too long in the early afternoon light before he turned and went back up the steps.

Not speaking another word until he reached the front door that was still wide open and promptly ran face first into the same barrier that had barred him entry before. And this time he had been moving so fast that he crumpled to the ground on impact, holding his nose that was now gushing blood and letting out some form of verbal outrage in protest that quickly melded into profanities of both English and non.

“God- _fuckin’-_ damnit! C’est des _conneries_! _”_ It must have stunned him pretty badly because he turned from his spot on the ground and went to lean against said barrier, tilting his head back to stop the bleeding – only for the entities of the house to grant him entrance and allow him to fall backwards and smack his head against the hard wood floors. “FUCK!”

Rick refused to feel bad about the whole thing, but basically witnessing his grandparents’ house beat up his ex was probably one of the strangest and most satisfying things he would ever get to witness.

\--

They began the cleansing a little less than an hour after Daryl had gotten there, spending far too much time trying to stop the redneck’s nose from bleeding – all the while Rick’s Grandmother was giving him _shit,_ and Rick was reluctantly applying first aid. Or as much as he could because Daryl did _not_ want him touching him, and honestly Rick didn’t want to be touching the other man either, both wearing scowls and having an air of discomfort about them as they stood in the kitchen. The screaming match was too fresh, what Rick had said too scathing and both were obviously still feeling the sting, but Rick wasn’t going to _apologize_ or anything like that. Daryl had no right to be upset that Rick wasn’t taking this whole afternoon very well, it was fucking hard for him and he had been doing his best until he realized it wasn’t going to be good enough. Daryl felt too much like home. They fell too easily into step, worked too well together, and though that should have made the afternoon more easy going it just felt like a knife stabbing just so in between Rick’s ribs and it was so damn hard to _breathe_ sometimes when Daryl’s pale blue eyes caught his own.

But they needed to get things done before Rick’s Mother came back for supper, so ultimately Rick knew he was the one making things difficult. He just wished Daryl would stop acting like nothing should be wrong at all; that they should just hate each other equally and call it a fucking night. Because Rick _didn’t_ hate Daryl, as much as he felt rage when he looked at him, and he didn’t need to be reminded of that constantly. Most of that rage was grown from his own anger at himself for not hating Daryl like he should, it was just easier to direct it at the redneck than at himself. He’d spent enough years hating himself, Daryl could have a fucking turn.

The first thing the younger man was going to do was smudge the first floor of the plantation house. That would clear the air effectively, make it easier to breathe, and would also calm any restless spirits that weren’t the main problem. It was probably going to be the only way Daryl could single out what was causing such distress, and where it was residing. They began back in the entryway, since that was where it had first made a protest at Daryl's entry, and carefully lit the bundle of sage that Rick’s Grandmother had put together.

For some reason Daryl snapping back to his monotonous and non-caring expression was easier to look at, and the fresh black and purple spider-web bruising across the bridge of his nose and blackening his left eye might have made him appear a little less threatening as well. Not so much the ethereal thing that Rick couldn’t stare at too long, and more grounding – proof that they were in that moment together, and that whatever was in the house had a physical control over everyone there. Rick tried to shake how the fresh black eye was far too familiar a sight on the youngest Dixon’s face, and that he would always somehow look more vulnerable with the dark coloring on his skin, but it also made Rick’s skin crawl and his stomach lurch. He hoped it had been a long time since Daryl had sported a black eye, with his Pa having been in jail for so long he prayed Daryl hadn’t had to know a lick of pain for the 10 months he was free from his patriarchal reign, though living with the last name Dixon made that a slim chance. There were people other than his Pa that would like nothing better than to punch Daryl in the face just for existing, and his new-found smart mouth probably didn’t help matters either.

Smoke wafted thick and lazy through the air after it caught, Daryl blowing on the burning embers carefully with a cupped hand surrounding one side – and Rick did _not_ stare at how his cheeks hollowed enticingly, or how the light from the embers highlighted his cheekbones and made it more drastic and pronounced. Nor did he swallow hard, and look down at his feet to distract himself until the strong smell of the burning herb hit him full force and a calm started to take over his limbs and nerve-endings. It still smelled a little like pot, something Rick had become accustomed to over his years on the force (he could sniff it out as well as the drug dogs sometimes) but he knew the slightly spicy tint to it separated the smell from its counter-part. He’d have to talk to his grandmother about growing something other than white sage, since there were other strands that were less mistakable with the illegal drug.

Daryl moved slow, boots not even heard on the hardwood floor as he carefully paced throughout the space, dragging the smoke languorously through the air as it seeped into every inch of the foyer. Traveling up the spiral staircase to catch the light near the chandelier and hang there like clouds amidst the sparkling prisms of glass. Rick got caught up in the mix of light and shadows until he felt the air shift next to where he had been leaning against the wall, Daryl moving past him to continue his way through the house and down the halls. His movements were well practiced, and the way the atmosphere lightened and shifted to something not so heavy and thick showed the house took well to his ministrations. Though it didn’t go unnoticed how Daryl avoided the area surrounding the stairs completely, giving them a wide berth before he changed directions and started down the labyrinth of hallways.

Rick followed reluctantly, hands shoved in his jeans pockets with his thumbs locked in the belt loops, the loose-ness of the fabric dragging the hem low on his hips as he followed at a snails pace behind Daryl. Keeping a good few feet between him and the younger man while he worked, trying his best not to trace the line of his shoulders and how the muscles moved with each motion of his arm in front of him, still dragging the burning sage through the air as he moved. Parting the way as if parting water.

It took a while to get through the majority of the downstairs, the dining area and sitting room less used spaces that Daryl took his time with, and the maze-like hallways lined in picture frames and furniture older than Rick were claustrophobic until the sage stained the dusty walls. They made it past the kitchen fairly quickly, but that led them down the hallway towards his grandparents’ wing. The large open bedroom used as a partial hospital room when his grandpappy was still alive, and the back wall of said bedroom opening up into the patio that led into his grandmother’s garden. There was another set of doors on the patio that went back to the hallway by the kitchen, but it was always nice for his grandmother to be able to step right out of her bedroom and into the herbal paradise that she created with her own two hands.

Those few feet towards the giant double French doors felt like wading through tar, Rick fully stopped once or twice to continue to give Daryl his space, but he couldn’t understand what was making him walk so slowly. As soon as they reached the bedroom doors, slightly ajar and revealing the darkness inside, Daryl stopped dead as out of nowhere the burning embers at the end of the sage fizzled and died – black and still, smoke ceasing in a wisp. There was no wind coming from inside the room, and Rick could hazard a guess that it wasn’t a backdraft. It was silent as the grave.

Pocketing the now cool half-burned bundle, Daryl stepped towards the doors and pushed one open into the dark, the creaking of the old brass hinges graining on Rick’s nerves like nails on a chalkboard. The silence inside resonated loud and deep like a heavy exhale, breathed from an unseen creature that released a tension so palpable every muscle froze and seized in preparation for something that only resided in his nightmares. Daryl leaned forward and peered inside the room, strong hands holding onto the door frameas if bracing himself from entering, which was the only thing keeping Rick from grabbing on to the redneck’s shoulder and yanking him back. This was a bad idea, Rick could feel it deep down in his bones as they trembled and ached in that way before something really violent happened – he knew the feeling all too well from similar situations over the past few years.

The ‘maybe we shouldn’t’ died on his tongue as Daryl leaned back again and let his hands fall to his sides, seeming to not find what he was looking for from his vantage point. The whole situation was giving Rick a seriously creeped out feeling, waves of goosebumps trailing over his skin and making him involuntarily shudder at the sensation. He watched Daryl’s face carefully, only recognizing the set determination a split second before he stepped over the threshold and into the dark room.

Rick sprang forward without a second thought.

He fumbled for the light switch on the wall, the few seconds ticking away like an age until the room blinked into view bright as day. The curtains were drawn over the floor to ceiling patio doors, and Rick crossed the space quickly to throw those open as well, letting sunlight spill into the room and chase away the heavy ambiance that hung agonizingly thick. Daryl stood in the middle of the room, looking from wall to wall and along the ceiling as if still in search of something Rick couldn’t see, silent and tense and careful in his movements. Rick was pretty sure they shouldn’t have come in the room, but it was obviously the source of whatever was haunting his Grandmother’s shadow and hurting her so. And they needed to do something about it before night fell, that was when it seemed to be most active.

It took a lot of strength for Rick to not ask Daryl questions: if he could feel anything, what he could see, what they should do, if there was _anything_ they could do. Rick didn’t want to take his Grandmother away from the house she had called her home for the past 46 years, but he would if he had to. Instead he just watched Daryl work, move about the space like a human Geiger Counter, slowing in certain areas and changing direction every now and then as his pale blue eyes swept the room periodically. Though Rick would be lying if he didn’t admit that he wasn’t just watching the redneck just to look at him. It was an addicting thing, as much as he hated it and had screamed so in Daryl’s face not an hour prior, and the longer he spent around the other man the more he realized he would just catch himself staring. There was still a small, abused part of Rick’s heart that longed for the other, that reminded him how much he had fucking _missed_ him and how soothing it was to have him near again – how he looked so good it hurt.

“The fuck are ya starin’ at?” Daryl snapped at him, breaking Rick out of the trance he didn’t know he had fallen back into. He mentally shook himself, cursed his fucking sentimentality that was wracking through him constantly in excruciating consistency, and didn’t show one spec of it on his face as he just set his jaw harder.

“You find anythang?” he questioned instead, drawl low and unaffected.

“Maybe,” Daryl answered cryptically, scowling deeper at being ignored and turning his attention back to the corner to his right as if something had moved in his peripheral. Something that never failed to make Rick’s hair stand on end, because they were so very alone in the room despite how much Rick knew that was not the case. They were never alone in that house.

“Is – it’s not my Grandpappy, is it?” The thought had crossed his mind more than once, no matter how much Rick hated himself for even considering it. His Grandpappy would never hurt his Grandmother like that. But he couldn’t help how it popped into his head every now and then, the thought that maybe he’d turn around and see something resembling the old man waiting there for him to notice.

“No,” Daryl told him quietly, a hint of softness to the word even as he still refused to look at Rick. “He pass’d jus’ fine, he ain’t around ta defend yer Gan’ma then he ain’t here at all.” A cold draft suddenly filled the room, as if the air conditioning had kicked on except there was no sound to accompany it, and Rick froze when he saw Daryl’s breath mist in front of his face. Daryl’s shoulders hunched and stiffened, goosebumps gliding down his arms visibly and the slight tremble was something so horrifying to witness in the bright daylight hours. The juxtaposition stunned Rick like a slap to the face.

He finally spun on his heel with a shuddering “ _F-FUCK_ tha’s cold!” and stalked from the room and back into the hallway, Rick moving only a few steps forward so he could still see the other man. “Shit, it ain’t yer Gran’pappy and it _really_ don’ like me much – _fils de pute_!” he cursed under his breath, rubbing his bare arms to try and warm them. Rick stayed a good few feet away, still inside the room and pausing when he hit that cold spot that had sent Daryl running. It was cold and bit like ice, making him jump back further into the room and away from the strange change in temperature. It was like walking into a freezer.

“Shit,” he cursed too, Daryl finally looking at him to catch his wide-eyed stare at the nothingness in front of him. “How can it do this? It’s daylight!” He tried to elaborate, looking up at Daryl and the two locking eyes just as the heavy old Oak door swung shut with an echoing thud. So hard it rattled the frame, and Rick launched forward – threw himself at the door to try and yank it back open and escape. But the lock clicked into place audibly, the handle refusing to budge as he turned it hard enough to break. Repeated and desperate and his heart jumping to his throat when he heard the lock crack from the force of his panicked actions and it _still_ wouldn’t open. Either the thing was still in the room with him, or it was out there with Daryl – and it wanted the redneck gone. Rick had seen what it could do, the tears in his Grandmother’s skin, the cold that felt like the coldest winter wind, and the fear Rick felt in that moment was paralyzing. “DARYL!”

“RICK!” There was pounding on the door, Daryl’s fists making the whole thing shake, and Rick could hear the old brass handles shake and turn as he tried to get through both doors. “RICK KEEP TALK’N TO ME!”

“I CAN HEAR YOU!” he yelled at the closed doors, accepting they weren’t going to open and looking around the room, eyes landing on the giant glass doors and sprinting for the patio before something worse could happen. His body moving before his brain could process that he needed to _move._ Possibilities flew through his head as fast as plans of action, his mind set narrowing down to the same focus he had at work – even his hand going to his hip instinctively though there was no gun there. Rick braced himself with hands still searching for weapons as he almost ran through the glass door in his haste to open it and get out of the room as fast as humanly possible. Either it was after him and he needed to get _out_ , or it was after Daryl and he needed to get to him before-

He slid the glass door open and met resistance halfway, but managed to squeeze through while pushing with all his might – not knowing if it was caught on the rusted metal frame or if there was something fighting him – teeth clenched tight until he was through and darting for the second set of patio doors that let him back into the house. Those were blessedly unlocked, Rick bursting into the abandoned hallway as he took off like a bat out of hell down the hallway and taking corners so quick he had to brace himself on the walls. “DARYL!”

The sound of wood splintering made him beat his feet faster against the hardwood until he rounded the last corner and saw Daryl break through the doors and into the bedroom he just vacated. _FUCK_. “DARYL GET OUT!” Stopping hard with his hand on the doorframe he saw Daryl in the middle of the room with his hands in his hair pulling at the strands as if to wake himself up. “Daryl!” The man spun around, wide pale blue eyes panicked and afraid and seeing Rick there let out a breath that sounded more pained than it should have. “Get out b’fore-“

“s’gone,” Daryl told him, cutting him off sharply with a winded word. “It’s gone.” With an exhale he slipped back behind the mask that Rick couldn’t read, his expression schooled into something the deputy could barely recognize. But Rick knew what he saw there before, the panic-stricken worry that had taken over every line of his bruised face and it made something cold form in Rick’s stomach. Because what he thought he had seen, it was impossible – there was nothing there, nothing left between them, just this residual feeling of want and familiarity that Rick _couldn’t fucking shake_. That made him stare too long and feel too much. There was no way Daryl still felt something for him, he had never felt anything in the first place, sure he cared enough to keep following him around the damn house but – that worry was laced with something that blazed and burned, and looked a lot like love. And it roiled in Rick’s stomach until he thought he would be sick.

“What was that?” he asked before he could stop himself, and Rick wasn’t entirely sure he was asking about the spirit. But that blazing stare simmered to nothing, Daryl finally breaking away to look about the bright room once more – untouched as if nothing had happened at all. Matching the cold shell Daryl was able to hide behind, the one Rick was slowly adapting as well, and then Daryl’s gaze stopped.

Rick saw what he saw not a moment after. Claw marks, much different than the ones Rick had seen years ago scratching away the wards on the doorways – these were human, and they were on the old bed frame that belonged to his grandmother. His stomach lurched at the unspoken question, if they belonged to a restless spirit or his grandmother, the nausea quickly replaced by anger and dread that spread to Daryl’s expression as well. There was something far worse than just an upset spirit in that house, and it wasn’t going to go away easy.

“We’r gonna need mor’ candles.”

 


	4. Beast of Burden, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another two-parter, and y'all know what that means: ritual time.
> 
> I have no excuse that's any different than before, work and travel and my hubs being in the Air Force took a lot of time these past few months. But I do come back to you with a new chapter and good news, the next one is written and done - waiting to be edited and will be posted in exactly 2 weeks, and I have left my job so my free time has just opened up exponentially. I'm resuming my 2 week update schedule, and though I'm moving to destinations unknown in late January/early February I don't think it will be effected again.
> 
> Through our wonder powers combined myself, my lovely beta The_Royal_Gourd, and my literal fan-wife ijustwantedyoutoneedme have fixed up this chapter to as close to perfection as we could get it. (Still waiting on that TWD Charlie's Angels parody I mentioned in other fics, if anyone is listening >.> ) Alright, that's it, no real warnings, it's a wordy and feeling-filled chapter but I hope y'all like it! Now I'm off to reply to comments from 6 weeks ago.
> 
> Enjoy.

\--

\--

It was later that evening that Rick realized he really had no idea when he was going to be leaving White Oak.

Originally, Rick hadn’t wanted to still be there at all. He had planned on leaving that morning when he drove over to the Dixon house, but with what happened to his Grandmother the night before he hadn’t even thought twice about calling the King County Sheriff’s office and asking for another week’s extension. Which they granted, he was one of their top deputies and was far over-due to use his vacation days anyway – also, Shane would be back to help and could take one of the desk-jockeys out for a test run.

But after Daryl’s failed attempts to cleanse the air and righten the balance in the old plantation house, they were stricken with the truth of the situation they had stumbled upon – Rick’s Grandmother had been right, this was not going to be an easy fix. And it especially wasn’t going to be something that could be fixed that afternoon. Daryl had asked Rick’s Grandmother (as politely as he could, of course) to gather things from the room she might need until he could come back the next day, and proceeded to lock up the entire wing. Tying the handles together with old barley twine dipped in a bowl of salt water, since Rick had shattered the old lock when trying to escape. He then drew all over the old oak French doors with heavy, soft white chalk that left behind distinct and clear markings so familiar and comforting to look at Rick physically relaxed as he walked up to check on the other man’s progress. It immediately made him feel a little safer, that the thing would reside in the room – or at least near it, as Daryl had told him, the spells drawn on the doors tying it to the area – while they tried to figure out what they needed to do.

“Busy afternoon?” his Mother asked as she walked into the kitchen with groceries for supper, setting them down next to where Rick was standing with a beer in hand and staring off in deep thought. Her voice startled him out of it abruptly, completely forgetting that he also needed to explain to his Mother where the markings came from and _who_ had made them. Daryl would be showing up first thing in the morning, after all.

“Uh – yeah, kind of,” he answered intelligently, panic racing through him for a split second until he could set the conversation out in his mind. The older woman was patient in the silence, the sounds of the crickets and cicadas outside filling the space from the still open windows. “Mom… somethang happened to Gan’ma last night,” he started carefully, his Mother’s bright green eyes turning to peer at him just as careful as his words. “You know about the thangs in the house, right?”

She smiled at him kindly, nodding and urging him to go on without speaking, though she laughed at the heavy sigh he let out in exasperation.

“Did _everyone_ know except me?”

“Yes,” she chuckled, smiling so wide her teeth showed, not looking the least bit bothered by her son’s displeasure as she bustled about starting supper. “What happened to yer Gan’ma?”

“Somethang is hurtin’ her,” Rick told her, not enjoying how the smile dropped from her face.

“What?” she gasped, eyes wide and her hands stilling. “Is that why Daryl was here?”

Rick’s mouth dropped open, words dying on his tongue. “W-what? What d’ya m-“

“I passed him on the road, honey. To be honest I was surprised ta see him at all, after how y’all left thangs,” her voice got quieter the more she spoke, knowing all too well how tender a subject it was. “It makes more sense now, I was wonderin’ if you pushin’ me out the door this morning had somethang to do with him.” Her head ticked to the side, a trait that she picked up from her son and late husband, leveling a curious and serious gaze at him. “Did you go over there this mornin’, too?”

Rick reluctantly nodded, not sure about the look on his mother’s face – it wasn’t like he had a choice, bringing Daryl into the fold, but there was something lightly disappointing tinting her steady stare. He really wished he knew if it was because she was disappointed that he had gone to Daryl at all, or that there was still a giant rift between them that must still be painted all over his face. The whole afternoon had been exhausting and relieving at the same time, but Rick would be the first to admit that he was worn out with trying to keep up with Daryl Dixon and his push and pull bullshit. His mother might be disappointed that it wasn’t all somehow fixed – like the years in between were some magic wand that could erase all the hurt and pain that was caused – and God Rick didn’t know if he would even want that after all he had gone through, but it was obvious now that Rick had been the only one hurting in that entire time. Daryl was unfazed, maybe a little rattled – after all, they had history – but there wasn’t much there in his expression beyond awkwardness, annoyance and confusion when Rick did something dumb like smile at him. As if nothing had happened.

There was no way it would ever be that easy.

His mother was quiet, trying her best to not ask while she started cutting up potatoes for dinner until the words just slipped out. “…so how was that?”

“Fine,” Rick answered with a sigh, and only when his mother cut a look at him did he answer honestly. “Terrible… and great. Saw Merle first,” he added when she raised an eyebrow at ‘great’, then tore his fingers through his curls and pulled just to do something with his hands. His mother’s green eyes were piercing and haunting and he could feel them burning holes in the side of his face, and the whole day just came crashing back to him full force. “I miss’d him, Mom.” She didn’t even have to ask who he meant.

She just pulled his hands from his hair, made him look at her though he wanted to look anywhere else, and said as sympathetically as she could. “I know ya did, sweetheart. And I bet he missed you, too.” Rick wasn’t so sure about that, shook his head in disagreement and tried to back away but his Mother held fast. “You know he did,” she near scolded him. “He wouldn’ta come back if he didn’t.”

“He came back for Gan’ma, Mom,” Rick told her. “Not me.”

“I don’t believe that. And neither should you.” Rick couldn’t even look at her by that point, but she had his hands in hers with an iron grip, and used her low height to duck down and catch his gaze again. “When’s he comin’ back?”

“…tomorrow.”

The smile that crossed her face was wide and knowing, and only after she “Mmm-hmm”d with a cheeky grin did she let go of his hands, and tuned out his sputtering protests until he too fell silent and scowled at his beer bottle while she fixed supper.

\--

Rick woke with a violent start, sitting straight up and breathing heavy – his chest heaving and heart thundering in his chest so loudly it echoed through his bones. What the _fuck_ was that?

He threw the damp sheets off his skin, sweat seeping right through the fabric and soaking his shirt and boxers so they clung to his frame uncomfortably. He felt like he had just rolled around in the swamp, as if he hadn’t slept a wink, and felt vaguely pissed off in the most misplaced way as he tried to conjure up the images that had woken him. He hadn’t had a nightmare in years, nothing as vivid as what just happened to him – it had felt so real, so bright and dark and intense as if it were a living memory, and it had left his heart racing past the point of calming it quickly. His teeth were still on edge, jaw clenched tight as he was assaulted with every sense with the dials turned to max – so painfully aware of everything around him in his bedroom. How it was too early, the morning gray outside his window only starting to tint gold with the sun’s first rays. How the old house creaked with the wind, the glass panes in the window frames protesting at the breeze and not letting any cool air into the stifling room. How it was hot as hell with no reason as to the source.

Or how the old pipes in the walls and ceiling kicked to life and screamed as the water in his bathroom was turned on and started sputtering loudly from the tub faucet. Rick about jumped out of his skin at the sudden sound, throwing the sheets off and near barrel-rolling out of bed in his haste to get in there. There was no way to tell if a pipe had burst or if _something_ had broken a piece of the tub and like hell was some damn ghost going to fuck up his bathroom while he slept. Rick didn’t want to think about how it traveled up two floors and what vengeance it must want for being tied to his Grandmother’s bedroom door all night.

He threw the door open and immediately hit something that wasn’t the wall, bouncing off of it roughly and barely getting the door open enough for him to fit through – sending Rick crashing into the door frame painfully and whatever he hit almost into the bathtub. Some bowls and jars clattered from where they were scattered across the ground, and a “Wha’ the shit?” was cursed out as Rick came face to face with a very angry Daryl Dixon. “The hell ‘s wrong wit’ you! I though’ you were one’a them!”

“So did I!” Rick protested, “What’re ya doing in my bathroom!?”

“The hell ya think I’m doin’?” The entire room was fogged and muggy, heavy with steam and the mineral smell of herbs and salt, and it clung to Rick’s already damp clothes and dark curls. Still mussed from sleep and sweating through his nightmare, and Rick was struck with how fucking early it was – Jesus, what was Daryl _doing_ there? Fucking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at what must have been half past six in the Goddamn morning, though Rick couldn’t tell if the bags under his eyes were from lack of sleep or if that was just how his face looked. There was a heated flush across his cheekbones too, and Rick had to wonder how long he’d been leaning over the hot tub of water doing whatever he was doing to cause him to look like that. Or if there was something irritating the skin from the mixture of dissolved minerals and water wafting in the steam, that couldn’t be good for the tub.

“’m tryin’ ta cleanse the air,” Daryl muttered in continuation, eyes locked on either the bathtub or Rick’s face with steadfast determination that was confusing so early in the morning. “S’posed ta have every tub and sink full’a this stuff to change th’ inside of the house.”

“Into _what_ , the fuckin’ tropics?” No wonder he had sweat through his clothes, it was like the Congo upstairs and down the hall as Rick leaned out the open bathroom door and realized it was hot everywhere. Even pulling at the wet fabric that clung to his torso and using it to try and air out the heat that his skin was soaking up like a sponge didn’t help, and he heard Daryl choke on air and start to cough, snapping his attention to the other who had turned back away. “If ya can’t even breathe right then it might be a bit much,” he scolded.

“Shut up!” Daryl sputtered, face even more red but refusing to look at Rick. “Put some damn clothes on and help me, too many fuckin’ bathrooms in thi’s Goddamn house –“ but Rick was already walking into his room and peeling away the soaked T-shirt with difficulty as the fabric had become thicker in the humidity. He was sweating like a whore in church, and he knew whatever clean clothes he put on weren’t going to stay dry for long.

He finally succeeded in yanking the offending thing off, struggled into some jeans that did _not_ want to go up his damp legs, and was digging for a clean shirt when Daryl came in to bitch at him some more. “What’s takin’ so damn long,” he grumbled, though the tone held no malice and almost sounded _teasing_ , for Daryl anyway. “Ain’t going ta a ball or nuthin’-“

“Keep yer pants on,” Rick muttered right back without thinking. “Like getting dressed in the damn rain, keep sweating too much.” He finally yanked on his old police academy T-shirt, gray and well worn and more than comfortable enough to sweat through. His jeans not so much, but he hadn’t planned on the house feeling like the middle of July.

“Keep forgettin’ yer a cop,” Daryl said absently while eyeing the faded logo stretched across Rick’s chest, making Rick snort as he leaned over to pull on some socks.

“Dunno how,” he quipped back. “Merle spotted me just a’couple minutes in. Thought he was gonna run back inside and lock the door, pretend y’all weren’t home.”

Daryl scoffed his quiet non-laugh that should not have been so nice to hear, the air and space between them easing into something effortless and comfortable as he leaned against the door – once again not entering Rick’s bedroom without permission. Something that was a solid reminder that he wasn’t allowed in anymore, he had given up that right, and Rick shook off whatever nostalgic daze that had begun to cloud his judgment. The day had just begun and he had a feeling that they had a lot to do in the daylight hours, so they had to get started quick. He straightened up and gave the Dixon his undivided attention, not quite awake enough to know what that might mean – offering his aid to the redneck – but at that point he was ready for anything. It felt too familiar not to be.

“So what’re we doing?"

\--

Rick hated to think how long it would’ve taken Daryl to get everything done if he hadn’t demanded the other’s help, because what followed took far too much time.

‘What they were doing’ was filling every tub and sink in the entire house with the hottest water they could, warm enough to dissolve salts and soak up the herbs and minerals until the steam was tinted with earthy and spicy tones that caught up in Rick’s lungs and tickled his nose. It changed the inside of the house as it filled the halls and adjacent rooms, transporting them to some distant jungle so wild and ethereal that life and death became one entity. So interwoven that there was no barrier, and the atmosphere turned into something easier to distinguish – making it much simpler to single out what was causing all the trouble. The change gave Daryl a chance to hone in on its unique signature, but it also made all of the spirits in the house stronger. Gave them some strength and energy that allowed them to move about the space instead of inside of it, become more tangible and a participant instead of an outsider viewing the house and living things occupying it. That was a scary thought, when Rick focused on it, but it was also a bit incredible to be in the middle of. Rick didn’t see anyone around them besides Daryl as they continued to work through the house, but he could tell things had moved – had heard people walking and moving items around. There was a chance that it was his Mother or Grandmother, but something made him seriously doubt that was the case.

It took them most of the morning, waiting for the tubs and sinks to fill, and then stirring in the mixtures Daryl must have pre-made because they were all in mason jars already blended together. After a while he let Rick mix things into the water on his own, to cover more ground in less time, but for the first couple of hours they stayed in close-quarter tile bathrooms as they filled with steam – and it didn’t take long for them to be drenched in sweat once more. Rick’s heather gray shirt appeared almost black it was so wet, clinging to him again from the amount of sweat that also dripped from his dark curls and soaked his now heavy and uncomfortable jeans. And _fuck_ were they chaffing.

Daryl was either immune to the uncomfortable state he should’ve been in or his clothes were so well worn it didn’t bother him, but he was just as drenched as well and it showed more in the sheen on his arms and his clumped hair – though his face had a flush to it that was far too enticing to look at – which Rick tried to ignore as best he could. But he couldn’t help noticing how it was almost constantly there across the bridge of his nose and bleeding onto his cheekbones, and it was curious how someone who was born and raised in the deep South was somehow still not able to handle the heat, though the flush could’ve been from the herbal mix he’d been inhaling like oxygen so Rick really couldn’t speculate too much. Once again spending too much time inspecting and pondering every inch of Daryl Dixon’s face. But he did his best not to mention or ask about it either.

The two didn’t talk much, but when they did it was – easy. As much as Rick hadn’t wanted it to be all day the day before, it really and truly was and after his rude awakening from some fever-forgotten nightmare Rick just couldn’t find the strength to fight it. They had a lot of work ahead of them, and the combination of Rick trying to stay mad and Daryl trying to remain a distant asshole was just too exhausting. Rick was the first to extend the metaphorical olive branch, speaking more into the steam-filled silence, but Daryl carefully slipped back into a routine that was both new and familiar – and like he had never left. They still moved together, could communicate through pointed look alone – or Rick would answer verbally to Daryl’s grunts and gestures – and they just _understood_ each other. And they got shit done, quickly and efficiently, with so much less hassle than the day before that Rick felt ten pounds lighter.

And he had missed Daryl – so very, very much.

He tried not to think about that too much either.

\--

“Think that’s the last one,” Rick proclaimed just before noon, pushing his drenched dark curls out of his eyes as they dripped beads of sweat down his nose and cheeks. God he wanted a shower. Daryl just nodded beside him, a thick sheen of sweat slick on his arms and shoulders gleaming in the fluorescent lighting of the bathroom. Or as much as could be seen through the opaque white of steam in the small space. The air in the house was so thick it was almost hard to breathe, Rick had heard his Mother and Grandmother leave about two hours before, not able to take the heaviness – his Grandmother especially – and Rick himself had choked on steam more than once. He was surprised Daryl wasn’t coughing up a lung with how much he smoked, but once again the redneck seemed immune to the ministrations.

But it was definitely starting to get to Rick, and he was ready to breathe some oxygen that didn’t have twelve other elements mixed with it. It’d be easier to breathe in a house fire.

“So – now what?” Rick prompted after a few minutes, not quite sure what they were supposed to be waiting for now that they had completed their ridiculous task. “Is it done?” It hadn’t been an _easy_ thing to finish, and certainly was tedious, but it also didn’t have the flair about it that Rick was so used to with the Voodou the Dixons practiced. He felt like it was missing something.

Daryl’s scoff caught him off guard almost as much as the way his light blue eyes cut a look at him narrowly – like he did _not_ want to miss Rick’s reaction when he spoke. “Tha’ was nuthin’, now we gotta get stuff for the ritual whil’ this ol’ beast marinates in the heat a bit.”

Rick wasn’t sure he heard right. “Wait, what?” Didn’t they just do the ritual?

“We ain’t ev’n start’d yet,” Daryl all but grinned at him, the smirk tearing across his face unpracticed and looking more like a sneer but it was obvious he was enjoying Rick’s stunned expression. He thumped Rick on the shoulder with one strong hand as he passed and entered the fogged up hallway, and Rick was struck with how that meant this was literally _part one_ and had almost nothing to do with the actual ritual Daryl had in mind.

They just spent 5 hours creating the fucking _setting_.

Rick groaned in exasperation and followed the light breathless sounds of Daryl’s quieted laughter down the hall, and once again ignored how good it felt to hear it.

The difference between the inside of the house and the world outside was monumental, a barrier of heat and humidity that was shattered like when they exited the swamp in the middle of summer – stepping into that first breeze past the treeline. Rick’s lungs almost seized up at the difference, and a shudder wracked his body from the colder air soaking into his drenched clothes and skin. Though after the initial shock, the fresh air was so freeing to breathe deep after the suffocating air inside the old plantation house. Rick had lost his socks after about 30 minutes of helping Daryl out, so his toes now curled into the grass as they stepped out onto the lawns, cool and crisp in comparison to the heat and he couldn’t help the small grin curling at his lips. Daryl had kept walking without him, passing one of the taller yellowwoods on the property and circling the trunk with his fingers grazing it while Rick caught up.

Seeming to find what he was looking for, tan fingers brushing against the soft moss blanketing one side of the tree until his fingertips were stained green, he turned and made a beeline straight across the grounds until he reached the treeline on that side of the property. Rick followed at his own pace a few steps behind, watching Daryl work in the Georgia sunshine – the sun high and beating down on them through the gentle breeze – and it was only after he stopped that Daryl seemed to hear Rick’s feet padding across the grass softly. “Didn’ have’ta follow me fer this.”

“I’m nosy,” Rick countered, which made Daryl scoff in a ‘suit yourself’ kind of way, kneeling on the ground and unsheathing a knife from where it hung on his belt. It was the same hunting knife that had always been there, the man having grown into the weapon from the boy who had learned to carry the weight on his hip – the one who had barreled towards Rick and Shane like a freight train at eleven years old and chased them off his property because Rick had _always_ been nosy. Couldn’t ever seem to help it, Daryl had learned long ago to just accept it – and it shouldn’t have warmed Rick’s heart that he still did.

Using the eleven-inch blade he sunk the sharp metal into the ground and loosened the Earth there until it came up in large chunks, procuring an old Crown Royale bag from one of the pockets on his cargo pants and proceeding to scoop up the dirt into the bag with his hands. Rick watched him dig deep into the ground, having inched close enough so he stood closely looking over the other’s shoulder. Daryl didn’t seem to mind, since he pulled the gold strings on the bag to tie it tight and then shoved the thing at Rick without looking back at him or saying a word – and Rick took it obediently, though a little confused.

Into the hole in the ground Daryl dropped something that was all too familiar, Rick setting his jaw harshly at the sight of a small leather bag tied tight and full of what must have been herbs and bones and other various things that made up a hex bag. He could still see a small pile of them burning in the Dixon lot years ago, right before Daryl told him what had happened to them and his whole world fell apart, so the sight of one that was so obviously made with the redneck’s own two hands left him with a confusing storm in his chest and had him shifting his weight as he swayed backwards a step. If Daryl noticed he didn’t say anything, but to be fair he hadn’t said much in the past couple hours at all so that wasn’t anything new, though he quickly covered the small pouch with dirt and buried it in the hole he had dug up. Pressing down and so obviously thinking chants and spells at the patch of disturbed Earth Rick could almost hear it, and Rick watched him intently as the man got to his feet after he finished and brushed the dirt from his hands against his pants.

Rick wanted to ask, even though he knew it was a part of whatever ritual Daryl was doing he wanted to ask – what was it going to do? What was inside the little bags of leather? Why did it have to be _hex bags_? But he held his tongue and watched Daryl unblinkingly, the other just reaching out an open hand for the bag of dirt – and Rick handed it over carefully with only a slight hesitation. Still waiting for an explanation, for Daryl to include him in this like he always used to, not liking how his chest constricted the longer the other man stayed quiet. They’d been okay so far that morning, Daryl had even outright _asked_ him for help this time instead of pushing him away, and Rick didn’t want to dwell too much on that but he couldn’t _help it_. Daryl had always kept him at arms length with the rituals to protect him, because he had cared so deeply for him – Rick would believe that until the day he fucking died, no matter what the Dixon said – but this time it must have meant either the ritual wasn’t dangerous at all… or Daryl truly didn’t care anymore, and was just going to let Rick do whatever the hell he wanted despite the consequences. Rick didn’t want to think he’d do that, it just wasn’t like him, but the longer the redneck went without cluing Rick in as to what was going on the more he doubted that he had ever really known the man as well as he thought he had.

Daryl caught his stare, his pointed fucking stare that was asking without asking, and held it for a moment before resigning himself to Rick’s need to know the plan or fidget and twitch – until he practically vibrated out of his skin with the effort of staying silent and annoyed. He sighed, holding up the bag he had been about to tie to his belt, and simply said “North”, then looped the strings through the worn belt-loop on his hip and fastened it there. “Need the rest, ya can come or go ‘nside – don’t care eith’r way.” Rick snorted, because that was the most painfully obvious statement that it was almost insulting. Suddenly feeling like they were back at square one, and instead of making him sad it just made Rick exasperated. Because he was beginning to see that it all was just bullshit. Push and pull _bullshit_.

 “I’ll stay,” he told Daryl evenly, staring him down as if to challenge his choice – and though there was a slight twitch to his features the Dixon didn’t react, or tried his best not to. And Rick did his best not to smile, that familiar unspoken battle of wills between them when they used to banter back and forth as kids was rekindled with a new fire since Daryl wasn’t pulling his punches anymore – not worried about chasing Rick off by saying the wrong thing. And it almost made it more… fun, the animosity, and for the first time that morning Rick saw a silver lining. Because they stared at one another for a long stretched out moment with narrowed eyes and squared shoulders and solid bare feet planted to the ground below them, and at the exact same time something seemed to spark. It reflected in the sliver of Daryl’s eyes, twitched at the corner of his downturned lips, and Rick felt it mimic in his own face, in his own eyes as they blazed – and then a grin broke out across his face just as Daryl ducked his head and broke eye contact. The uncomfortable-ness, the tension, the need to blame the other and _stay_ angry was just not _in_ them - it wasn’t their natural state, and it was so easily broken when they stood too close.

Fuck, Daryl Dixon was a goddamn asshole sometimes but Rick just _couldn’t_ stay mad at him.

And it was starting to become apparent that Daryl just couldn’t stay away from Rick Grimes.

Rick now had no quarries with telling Daryl he was full of shit.

\--

They traveled to the exact Cardinal corners of the estate and gathered a piece of the ground from each area, Daryl burying a hex bag in the hole and saying his quiet prayer in his head as Rick stood vigil and watched silently. With each stop they had begun to snark at each other, speaking more and biting at their lips to keep from outright laughing, but they were _talking_ – and the elation that filled Rick’s chest at the sight of laughter in Daryl’s eyes was something he really wanted to hate himself for but it felt so damn _good_. It was so much better to slowly torture himself than hold anger in his chest until it rotted through his ribcage, the pain was lessened by those soft glowing moments of joy and for just a little while Rick could pretend he was okay. That they were okay. Maybe if he pretended long enough it would actually happen, there was no harm in trying.

He really didn’t want to re-enter the plantation house, back into the muggy fog of steam and herbs, but it had taken them a good hour to travel across the estate so there was a slight chance the air might have lessened a bit in their absence. Daryl was cautious as he walked towards the front door, Rick could tell by how the other man had quieted and slowed his steps, eyeing the double doors as he approached until the two were climbing up the porch and standing at the threshold. Rick idly wondered how Daryl had even gotten into the house that morning, knowing the redneck had been barred by a spirit (though they weren’t sure which one) through the front door – and his actions were making Rick think he hadn’t gained entry that morning either. His Grandmother must have found a place for him to access the house while Rick had been sleeping.

Daryl had faint bruising around his left eye from the day before, not even his herbs and spells able to let it heal that quickly, but Rick was sure he didn’t quite want a repeat performance so soon. Nevertheless, Daryl opened the front door, and carefully pressed his shoulder first into the doorway waiting for resistance. Which never came, and he was able to step through into the still mist that filled the space of the foyer. Rick smiled softly, sending a quiet thanks to whatever had let Daryl in – not sure if Daryl’s ministrations had quieted the anger in the spirit until it forgave him for whatever he had done, or if it was the spirit’s way of thanking Daryl for the freedom to exist within the house on a more physical level for a short while. Either way, Rick was grateful as well. It was the first sign of progress.

The fog had lessened just a bit, not as smoggy but more of a light haze that swirled tranquil and calm, seeping into the walls and furniture and very essence of the house. It was easier to breathe, but it held a weight that was electric and alive, spiced and left the lightest traces of rosemary on Rick’s tongue. But they passed through it as easily as walking through an early morning mist, navigating the thin hallways back towards the still closed doors tied together with salted twine, the chalk symbols looking ghostly through the haze. Daryl quickly untied the barley twine and opened the doors to reveal the smog within – the heated steam having seeped under the doors and through the vents to fill that bedroom as well. It seemed thicker in that room somehow, and Rick couldn’t help coughing as the air caught in this throat.

“Shoul’n’t be this thick,” Daryl muttered in the quiet, also covering his own mouth with the crook of his arm. “Start’d in tha’ bathroom firs’ thin’.” The bathroom door was wide open, the lock busted and door splintered, Rick crept that direction to inspect it better through the smog that was as thick as smoke – and upon walking closer realized he could faintly hear the water running.

“It turn’d the faucets on,” he said as he got to the doorway, peering through the thick steam and barely able to make out how the faucet was not only running, put overflowing the sink and spilling on to (onto) the floor to create a messy mixture of herbs and salts that were somehow… un-dissolved. And that made zero sense to Rick, that wasn’t physically possible because the water was searing hot. It had to be. “Daryl?” he said slowly, with enough wariness he could feel the other coming up to him to also inspect the sink. “It washed it all out, and it isn’t mixed in the water.” The salt was floating on top of the water, swirling like ashes instead of something that should be easily absorbed, and it was unnerving to look at.

“Huh,” Daryl huffed, tilting his head and watching the patterns it was making on the surface of the water, but not doing much else. He almost looked intrigued, and Rick knew this because he had turned his whole head towards him at Daryl’s reaction.

“ _Huh_?” Rick asked in exasperation. “Wha’dya mean _huh_? You ain’t ever seen this b’fore?” It was freaking Rick the fuck out, the damn house was defying _physics_ and Daryl’s response was basically the equivalent of the ladies at his church chirping ‘well ain’t that the darnest thing’.

“May sur’prise ya, but the only haunt’d house I hang ou’ ‘n is yers,” Daryl sneered with a narrowed gaze, his own snark making Rick’s rear up in response.

“Ya old romantic,” Rick deadpanned without thinking, though Daryl just scoffed his non-laugh and turned back to the mixture that refused to melt into the water. “Guessin’ ya can’t fix it?”

“Ya got any ideas ‘m all ears,” Daryl muttered, looking like he wanted to step into the bathroom and investigate further but they _both_ knew that was a bad idea. And Rick was once again not against just yanking on the other’s shoulder if he tried. “Migh’ no’ need it, did ‘nough ev’ry place else.”

“You’re the expert,” Rick reminded him, catching his gaze as the younger man turned back towards the room – still moving shoulders first, and Rick wondered if that was a defensive stance he had to learn over the past few years or if he was expecting to run into something.

Or maybe Rick was just very focused on the broad expanse and how they looked in that sleeveless shirt.

Fuck, keep it together Grimes. You’re back to square one, stay there.

If Daryl was at all bothered by Rick’s constant stare he didn’t mention it, just went on about his business walking through the space but this time staring at the floor. Mapping out areas with his feet, sometimes literally touching boot tip to heel as if measuring paces, and every now and then leaning down to make a mark on the floor with the same white chalk he had used to write symbols on the door the night before. At first it didn’t look like the marks meant anything, merely just little specks on the floor that Rick was trying to piece together like constellations in the sky, but after the first dozen marks Rick could faintly make out that it was becoming a circle. A very, _very_ perfect circle, and as Daryl reached the two dozen marker for spots of chalk on Rick’s Grandmother’s hardwood the sheriff deputy couldn’t help but feel impressed.

He kept expecting Daryl to connect them and make a circle, but when Daryl straightened up and looked satisfied with his speckled outline of a circle in uneven spacing Rick realized what he was about to do instead. How he missed the bags of rock salt leaning against the wall beside the door Rick couldn’t have told anyone. What followed was a scene that was all too familiar and comfortingly nostalgic as Daryl flipped open a switchblade and sliced up the bag in the same practiced movements from his teenage days, cutting a small incision so he could then lift the heavy bag and begin his paces around the room. Pouring the most perfect circle of salt Rick had ever seen the Dixon create, in even lines and consistent amounts in every curve. The circle was about 12 feet across, taking up the expanse of the room, and just as it had been years ago the circle was only just the beginning.

Within the circle Daryl began making an extremely intricate _vévé,_ a large grid pattern surrounded by the symbols Rick knew to be stars, constellations and astral bodies that had been painted across the Georgia sky longer than the swamps had taken root in the ground. It didn’t take long for Rick to lean against the wall to watch the younger man work, how the movements in his arms were so well regulated and practiced that it was like he was pouring from the bag and the design was making itself along the floor – it was far more intricate and delicately elaborate than the ones from years prior and Rick wasn’t quite sure how the other was doing it from memory. It looked more like art than a spell, and Rick was mesmerized watching the other create the complicated image that was so ethereal he almost forgot what it was for.

“Ya can star’ lightin’ candles,” Daryl told him after about a half hour of Rick staring at him in silence, though it had been comfortable and passed quickly in the foggy room. Daryl started pouring salt directly into his hand around that time, the half empty bag under one arm when he wasn’t using it, and had begun doing more fragile curves and symbols that required him to create thinner lines poured in a small stream from his fist. He didn’t look up as he said it, but his low drawl had broken whatever spell Rick had fallen into watching the other work, and Rick pushed himself off of the wall he had basically become one with he had relaxed so far into it.

“Anywhere in particular?” The candles were all shapes and sizes, the two having rounded up anything they could get their hands on the night before in preparation for the ritual. Daryl shook his head distractedly as he continued the _vévé_ carefully, making Rick huff quietly because he knew Daryl needed to concentrate so he couldn’t ask for more direction. “You got a lighter on ya?”

“’n my pocket,” Daryl seemed to mutter without thinking, and Rick was glad he was so distracted because he knew his steps halted like he had run into a damn wall. Daryl had said it in a ‘get it yourself’ kind of way, which was how they used to be – years ago Rick would have just walked into the salt circle and fucking groped the other for the lighter without a second thought – but things were different now, and he felt like throwing something at the redneck. Despite how much that would fuck up the _vévé._

“…can I _have it_?” Rick asked through gritted teeth, not taking one more damn step towards the other man – fuck he couldn’t even look at him for a moment there. Though his gaze snapped up at the agitated huff Daryl let out at his question.

“Hands’re _kinda_ full-“

“ _Daryl_.”

He was not _that_ much of an asshole, he was just distracted with the ritual. There was no way it was on purpose. Daryl seemed to realize what he’d said after a moment, though he scowled as soon as his hands were empty of salt and shoved his hand deep into his front pocket – and like _fuck_ that would have happened, not a chance in _hell_ – to get his Zippo and then threw it over to Rick who caught it one-handed. He was _not_ going to feel bad about still being uncomfortable around the younger Dixon or touching any part of him, Daryl could seriously go _fuck_ himself if he was going to continue to be a dick about it. Rick didn’t even mutter a thanks as he went to get the candles and started leaving them scattered around the room in little groups, lighting them as he set them down, determinably not thinking about anything as he did so in a way that would have had Shane on red fucking alert. Rick only got that quiet and focused when he was _pissed_ , but there was no way for Daryl to know that. He didn’t really know Rick anymore, so he carried on none the wiser.

And as much as it irritated Rick even further, they got everything done much quicker that way. They always did work well together, even when they weren’t speaking. Especially when they weren’t speaking. _Fuck_. Rick scowled and went back to his place against the wall when all the candles were lit, flipping off the lights in the room so it was now cast in misted orange and yellow shadows that danced along the dark walls. Then he leaned back and crossed his arms across his chest to continue watching Daryl work. Somehow the _vévé_ still wasn’t complete, and was becoming so impossibly complex and convoluted that Rick couldn’t help but be impressed, begrudgingly so but still impressed.

It took Daryl another hour to finish the design, as it continued to spiral outwards from the main circle and mimic a very stylized sun, and Rick would have expected that Daryl would run out of places to set his feet as he worked – but somehow he still found some small place to stand to continue the complicated images and symbols. And he had to lean _far_ over in places, stretching his long arms to reach and complete a few lines and curls with the salt. In a few places he just ended up throwing it to complete the line, and Rick could _not_ believe his eyes as even as he threw the line further than he could reach and it still ended up working perfectly into the depiction on the ground. It was like fucking magic, and Rick had to stop himself and look up and away at the thought because – damn it, it probably was.

When Daryl finally stood up and regarded the full design, checking every inch of it over and making a few adjustments once or twice, Rick could hear the pops in his spine as he cracked his back from leaning over for so long. The Dixon threw the almost empty 25 lbs bag across the room towards the door where there were no candles, and Rick felt his brain stutter to a stop and basically leak out of his ears as he watched Daryl rotate his shoulders and stretch his muscular arms in the candlelight to work out the kinks and pop a few sore joints. And God _damn_ his torso stretched with it, the button-down riding up and revealing a sliver of tan skin along his waistband and Rick had to tear his eyes away and look the opposite fucking direction because he was _not_ going there – not today. He had been doing so well, despite how fucking _edible_ the other’s whole _everything_ looked in the flickering light, high contrast shadows and glistening highlights because it was still so damn _hot_ in the room full of steam and herbs and Rick was getting light-headed just looking at the other.

He’d been staring at him the past hour and a half as he worked, was it really just hitting him _right then_ that Daryl had grown up so damn hot and how unfair that was?

“Wha’s wrong now?”

“Nuthin,” Rick practically snapped, sniffing and pushing himself off the wall again just for something to do. “What now?”

“Now we start ‘n pray this damn thing don’ fuck up it up b’fore we finish,” Daryl muttered in a low rumble, hand on his hips as he regarded the _vévé_ on the floor. It would be a pretty dick move for the spirit to just basically take a toe and run a line through the fragile salt lines, and Rick couldn’t help the snort and smile at the thought, fuck if Rick was dead and could do that he’d write something out in it just to piss Daryl off.

“What?”

“Jus’ thinkin’ about it drawing a smiley face or somethang in the _vévé_ ,” Rick chuckled and finally looked back over at Daryl in time to see a twitch of something that _might_ have been a smile tug at the corner of his thin lips.

“Shud’up,” he scolded. “Don’ give it ideas.”

“It really can’t do that though,” Rick remembered vaguely, the smile on his face tearing from his lips as he spoke against his will. “Can’t touch the salt can it?”

“Nah, bu’ I wouldn’ doub’it droppin’ the ceiling on it ‘r somethin’.”

“Now who's givin’ it ideas?”

Daryl cut a look at him, head still ducked down and in a way that made Rick miss his bangs, huffing a sound that could have been a laugh and it was so strange to see the way it changed the other’s face. “Bes’ we stop whil’ we’re ahead then.”

Rick continued to grin and nodded in agreement quietly, tearing his gaze away from Daryl Dixon, and instead getting lost in the pattern on the floor once more as he continued to see more images and designs that he had previously missed. It truly was a work of art, amazing and calming to gaze at and Rick couldn’t believe it had come out of Daryl fucking Dixon – though at the same time he could. It hit him hard and stunned him into silence. Daryl was simply far too incredible for words sometimes, in every sense of the word: he was excruciatingly aggravating, snide and clever, trusted too little and gave too much, genuinely cared and could be so kind it hurt to witness. It hurt to realize, to be reminded of, that this amazingly beautiful man of such strength and fortitude was so incredible and so far out of reach. And Rick didn’t know why of all times right then was when he started to focus on that, when he had been so steadfastly _not_ thinking about it for the entire day. But he was certain it had something to do with the spell on the floor that felt like it was now stained into his eyes , and the herbs in the air that were steadily seeping into his lungs.

A warm hand nudged at Rick’s shoulder, carefully and cautiously, but Rick still didn’t look away from the _vévé_ though he wasn’t even sure if he was really gazing at it or into some abyss. “Rick? Rick, don’ go anywhere – still need ya here,” Daryl told him, quiet and low and spoken really close.

“Do you?” Rick was having a hard time believing the other, a sad smile tearing across his face and words spilling from his lips without his consent – further proof that the ritual was already starting to take effect before Daryl had even started.

Silence pressed long and heavy as Daryl’s hand on his shoulder, warm and splayed, fingers twitching like he was about to shake Rick’s shoulder to snap him out of his trance – and the contact alone was not something Rick had expected from the other. Nor was the truthful murmur of “Always”, rumbled as quiet as a whisper but unmistakable in the silence – and Rick wasn’t quite sure if he had imagined it or not. He blinked and that shattered the warm daze that had turned his whole body numb, casting a searching glance in the other’s direction only to meet Daryl’s own sharp, narrowed stare. And whatever he found he did not like, a frown pulling his lips deeper into a scowl that was both worried and agitated, then that warm hand tightened around his shoulder and Rick found himself being steered out the back patio doors until his bare feet hit the grass once more.

The stark lines and bright contrast of his Grandmother’s garden had Rick blinking repeatedly in the Georgia sunlight, the colors harsh and overwhelming after the muted haze of the steam-filled plantation house. But it brought him back to himself faster than he could handle, head spinning and a little disoriented – enough that he missed Daryl ducking into the house and returning only a minute or two later with water from the kitchen. “Sit down b’fore ya fall down,” he muttered, herding Rick backward until the back of his knees hit one of the patio chairs and he practically fell into the well-worn plastic weave. Rick downed most of the glass in one go, feeling much more human when he finished it, though was still startled when the pleasantly familiar scent of burning tobacco wafted his way and took over his senses.

Daryl wasn’t looking at him, so hunkered down in the chair that the base of his skull hit the back of the chair and his legs were splayed gracelessly but looking comfortable as hell – like the chair was made for him, and Rick had to wonder how many times he’d sat out there with Rick’s Grandmother and Grandpappy in the past few months smoking cigarettes in between the different spells he did around the house. Enough that there was an ashtray on the table, that was for sure. And Rick’s grandmother didn’t smoke. He inhaled deeply and exhaled the cloud through his mouth and nose, playing with the intermingling of his breath and the smoke curling around his lips – and as entrancing as it was to look at, Daryl had always done strangely wonderful things with cigarette smoke, Rick also knew the fidgeting of his fingers around the cigarette meant he was thinking about saying something he wasn’t sure he should.

“Ya can’t do tha’ again,” he started, still not looking at Rick. “We – we can’t, I kno’ it’s on me, too. Th’s shit, it feeds on th’ bad stuff. Ang’r, mis’ry, distress-“

“Heartbreak,” Rick added, already knowing where this was going. Daryl’s pale eyes cut a look at him at his interruption, exhaling heavily and letting the cloud escape into the breeze.

“Yeah,” he agreed with a guarded stare, but continued after a moment. “Thes’ kinda exorc’isms are all ‘bout balance, and with ev’rythin’ bein’ so negative already we can on’ly fight it with somethin’ positive. Ain’t gotta be anythin’ frilly ‘er nuthin’ but – ya know.”

“We aren’t helping,” Rick concluded, nodding and looking out across the garden to the mid-afternoon shadows cast along the trees and rows of flowers and herbs.

“Prob’bly makin’ it worse, ta be honest,” Daryl muttered around his cigarette filter before taking another drag, also looking across the expanse of winding pathways and wild plants all the way to the treeline. “’t’s why ya lost it fer a minute.”

“More than a minute,” Rick admitted, knowing how lost he had gotten in the memories and emotions he’d been pushing down deep all day, and how he didn’t want an encore when they went back inside.

“Can’t happ’n again,” Daryl said firmly, eyes snapping to Rick like a magnet and getting the other's attention immediately. “Meant it when I said I need ya, can’ do this withou’t ya Rick, and if we wanna ge’it done soon we gotta cut this shit out. Gonna be back ev’ry day ‘til th’ place is fit ta live in again.” He exhaled and his serious expression shifted to something more regarding. “When’re ya leavin’?”

“Dunno,” Rick shrugged, glancing down at the glass he was rolling back and forth in his hands before he added, “supposed ta be yesterday.” He was supposed to have left that morning, but instead Rick had gotten up at the crack of dawn to go knock on the Dixon’s front door, and ended up seeing the one person Rick vowed he never would again. Fuck, Rick had promised himself he’d never step foot in White Oak ever again, and look where that had gotten him. Sitting on his Grandmother’s garden patio with Daryl fucking Dixon pretending that just being so near the other wasn’t relaxing every tense muscle in his shoulders and lessening every heavy stone that had been settled in his gut since he had high-tailed it out of the backwoods town six years prior.

Rick would keep telling himself it was just the second-hand nicotine until he stopped hating himself.

He could feel Daryl’s stare burning a hole in the side of his face, and Rick didn’t look back at him until something occurred to him. How _close_ it came to them missing each other, how they almost _didn’t_ see each other again, and that tugged at Rick’s heart more than what he had allowed himself to mourn the past 24 hours. There was something there, in the way Daryl looked at him in that moment, that showed it was something Daryl wouldn’t have given up for the world either – passing like ships in the night would have been the worst possible fate, and all the hurt and anger seemed like such a distant thing in comparison. Rick had no idea what was going on in Daryl’s head, what he may or may not mean to the Dixon, but if their history alone kept Daryl looking at Rick like he was something that almost slipped through his hands like water – well, then that was enough for Rick.

Fuck, he should really hate himself for this.

They didn't speak again out on the patio, but they seemed to make a silent agreement – in a way only Rick and Daryl could – to look past whatever animosity they had, set aside the remaining negative feelings and focus on getting the thing in the house out. Rick could determinedly say he had no idea what happened in the Dixon lot six years before, not with the way Daryl had been treating him the entirety of the 36 hours he’d been around the younger man, but he knew without a doubt that he didn’t hate Daryl. Could never hate Daryl, no matter how much he wanted to. And Daryl didn’t hate him, so maybe – just maybe, Rick could learn to live with that. What they had before was something that would be forever lost, but maybe square one was right where Rick wanted to be.

When they stood up to go back inside, Daryl had to scoot-hop in order to get out of the chair, and Rick was so reminded of a smaller version of the Dixon barely able to fit in the chairs that a snort escaped him before he could stop himself. The glare Daryl cut at him held no heat, or malice, and God that was something Rick had missed too. So much that it made him dizzy.

Or dizzy enough to stumble as he got himself out of his own chair and almost fell flat on his face.

Daryl barked out a laugh from his chest that sounded like it was punched from him, eyes wider and incredulous but just _sparkling_ and fuck that almost wasn’t fair – until they were both stifling laughter as they headed back into the house once more.

Rick had gone from loathing the very sight of the youngest Dixon to laughing with him and basking in that warm reminder of what they used to have.

And it didn’t hurt anymore.

Yes, yes he could live with this – as long as he got to keep it this time.


	5. Beast of Burden, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know I said Wednesday but stuff and things happened so it's a couple days late, really y'all should know me better by now. Big shoutout to the love of my life, my sun and stars, Ijustwantedyoutoneedme, who beta'd this for me <3 Thank you so much for always coming to my rescue.
> 
> Okay so - I _love_ this chapter, love love LOVE it. The ritual is one I've wanted to do for awhile and their interactions was something I didn't expect so yay C: I hope you all love it too. That being said, warnings for the very end:
> 
> Non-con themes, molestation, heavy-petting/blowjobs, I want to go into more detail but it'll kind of give everything away. But I also want to tag accordingly cause we're about to go into some darker themes during this story and the end of this chapter is only one facet. It's the only one that's sexualized and I don't plan on it getting worse in that sense but we are in for a helluva rollarcoaster this story. They are growin up so I'm kind of taking off the kid gloves, so to speak, though that won't always be for the bad things it'll still mean more graphic detail. Mind the tags loves <3 I'll be updating them as I write.
> 
> Christmas holiday is coming up and I want to say I'll get this done in 2 weeks but I might not, it might be 3 - I'm driving all over the Midwest visiting relatives and stuff and I'm the adult so I get to drive sadly. For now this is your Christmas present, and it is _steamy_. I hope you enjoy dears, thank you for reading  <3

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It was when Daryl started mixing the ground up chalk into a white paint-like paste that Rick realized how in-depth a ritual it was they were performing, and what was going to happen next. The last time Daryl painted all over Rick’s face and chest they weren’t on the best of terms either – and it had been _torture_.

This was going to _suck_.

All Rick could focus on was the deep bass of his heartbeat pounding in his ears, steadily increasing as he watched Daryl rip his shirt over his head without a fucking care in the world, only a slight hesitation in his twitching fingers before he did so. Revealing long tan planes of skin, the same scars Rick had known the other to have since childhood painting his back – faded into the muscles there underneath newer marks, though all looking like they belonged to the same topographical map that spread like vines across the dips and valleys of his shoulder blades and narrow waist. And Rick wasn’t sure if he was breathing as his hungry eyes raked over every inch of exposed skin: the tattoo on Daryl’s shoulder, his broad shoulders and wide chest to match the thick muscles in his arms, the careful curved line of his spine that made his gaze travel down the other’s flat stomach to where a dark trail of hair disappeared under the low waistline of his pants. And _God_ did that low line show off the V his hipbones made that Rick could _vividly_ remember dragging his teeth over years ago – _fuck_!

His breath shuddered as he exhaled heavily, not able to tear his eyes away as he watched Daryl curve his spine more to try and see down his chest and stomach and begin painting lines and symbols everywhere, following the long lines of his torso and accenting them in the best of ways. If Daryl wanted positive fucking vibes to help with the ritual then Rick had that going in Aces and Spades, and the warm buzzing sensation that was clouding every spec of self-awareness in Rick’s body made time stretch into an infinite thing that went for miles and was over in seconds. The lines Daryl drew on his own face traced up his cheekbones in slanted lines, making them look like they could cut through glass, the sharp angles traveling down his neck to connect into the patterns across his chest and upper arms. He looked wild and otherworldly in that moment, in the haze of scented steam and flickering candlelight, among the spiraling pictures made of salt on the ground.

And Rick was reminded just how out of his depth he was, he had never belonged to this world – but Daryl did, it fit him so well it stole Rick’s breath away.

“Yer turn,” Daryl told him, and Rick couldn’t have said when the other had looked up at him or how long he’d known Rick had been staring at him like he wanted to eat him. But there he was, standing with the bowl of white paint in his left hand, his right covered in the paste in dripping patterns that looked far too obscene for Rick’s already racing heart. And then Daryl was walking towards him, slow as to not disturb the _vévé_ on the floor, and Rick couldn’t help the cautious step back at the other’s advance.

“I-“ Rick stuttered, not able to form words and really he didn’t know where to _look_ that could make this better besides over Daryl’s shoulder and at the wall, and fuck if that wasn’t being insanely obvious. “Do I gotta take it off?” he asked, already tugging at the hem of his damp gray police academy shirt but not removing it yet until he got Daryl’s say so. Because he’d really _rather not_ , but if that’s what it took then he could suck it up – for his Grandmother’s sake.

“We’re no’ suppos’d ta hav’ any clothes on at’all, but I figur’d this’ll do,” Daryl admitted, the red to his face showing starkly under the white paint, and Rick was so struck by the sight he didn’t realize Daryl was up in his space until he could see the different colors in his eyes. Shades of pale blue glinting like ice, an array of color brewing in shades both bright as day and dark as the stormy sky, and so easy to get lost in – until Rick saw him raise an eyebrow at the deputy’s stunned silence. It prompted him enough to move, looking down and to the right at nothing as he ripped his own T-shirt over his head of dark curls and stood straight and at attention waiting for Daryl to do what he needed to do.

He cleared his throat, though, to try and usher out the awkwardness that he felt creeping up the back of his neck hotly, “S-so, why would we need ta do it naked? Didn’ need to last time.” His gravel-rough words had pitched low and drawled far more enticing than Rick meant them to sound, but Daryl didn’t react one way or the other about it – and Rick tried really hard to not be disappointed.

“This rit’ual’s ‘bout natural balance, ‘s why we got dirt from each direction, bit’s’a each ele’ment on th’ property – so we shoul’ be free’a all man-made bits, like clothes, bu’ I got ink prem’natly suck on m’skin so I thin’ we’ll be alrigh’.” The mixture had been warmed by his hands and the steam still in the air, so it wasn’t as cool on Rick’s overheated skin as the last time Daryl had traced the shape of his skeleton across his chest and collar bones – but it still made Rick let out a shiver that shuddered up and down his spine, and he had to try and hold himself as still as possible while Daryl worked.

The painted lines traveled up his neck and over the sharp curve of his stubbled jaw, down his nose and across his cheeks, Daryl’s fingers dragging slow and heavy over Rick’s shoulders and the muscles in his arms all the way down to his hands. Only leaving Rick’s body when he had to reapply more of the white mixture to his fingertips, and Rick knew he was holding his breath and only took a chance to breathe when the youngest Dixon wasn’t touching him, the rapid push and pull speeding up his heart and changing the ritual preparation into something far too sensual for his brain to keep up with. His thoughts were fuzzy, overheated, buzzed through every limb and left trails everywhere Daryl’s fingers went – and he was going _slow_ , so as to make heavier and more distinct lines, so Rick felt every _single_ inch. It wasn’t until he was drawing symbols across Rick’s chest that the deputy realized Daryl was still talking, “Bu’ since it ain’t exact’ly how it’s ‘spos’d ta be, we gotta make th’ rest inticin’ ‘nough. Everythin’s gotta be perfect.”

Rick knew he was sweating, slicking up his chest and stomach and breathing so hard it showed in the heaving movements of his rib cage, which Daryl was _drawing on_ and traveling so low Rick was afraid he was going to drop to his knees to paint the lower part of his stomach – and Rick’s brain fucking shrieked to a halt and he almost shoved the other’s hands away. Whatever process Daryl was completing was delicate, and Rick’s overheated skin was not helping, or that was what he deduced with how slow Daryl was moving – how intently he was staring at the design that was tracing around Rick’s navel and lightly dotting his hipbones. Until the other slowed to a stop and Rick finally chanced a look at him, because his gaze had been _determinedly_ looking over the redneck’s shoulder and at the far wall as he tried to will his body to _calm the fuck down_ and not focus on every burning drag of Daryl’s fingers over his skin. Daryl touched a few other areas on Rick’s chest to complete the design, eyes dark in the dim room and Rick couldn’t make out what was there glistening in them  – but he hoped to _God_ they were done.

“Perfect?” He asked, the single word sounding so winded and light it was as if he had whispered it. Daryl made one last mark, down the center of Rick’s abdomen slow and feather light, barely kissing the skin there and it made Rick’s head spin and the room feel even hotter.

“…perfect,” Daryl muttered, gaze inspecting the lines of paint in languid movements that dragged and dripped like hot molasses, until he got to the lines on Rick’s face and the other man could see how his eyes had gone almost black in the dim light – and it was like all the air had left the room.

Rick wanted to kiss him in that moment, the urge striking him hard and sudden.

Could almost see it, even – taste it, cigarettes and damp earth and that electric charge before a rain storm. Practiced movements even after all their time apart, pulsating between rough and fast, deep and slow. Pressed tight until they left marks and bites in their wake. It would be filthy, long overdue. Hot, wet and forbidden, because it was _never going to happen God DAMNIT_ _Rick_. He was the first to look away, turn his head and swallow hard, sway backward a step and away from the other’s lingering touch, not entirely sure what had just happened only that his head was still spinning and it was so damn hard to breathe. His whole body buzzed pleasantly except for the cold shock around his heart that he had almost grabbed the other man by the back of his head and kissed him hard enough to leave bruises, had been _so close_ to forgetting himself – again. Rick didn’t even want to think about what Daryl would have done if he had given into that urge, something violent probably.

Back to square one his _ass_ , Rick’s composure had been stretched and frayed so thin it almost snapped. What the hell was he _doing_? They were there to fix the house, make it livable, spare his Grandmother the pain and suffering she’d been enduring silently for who knew how long. He needed to pull it together and stop being selfish, they had work to do, and if Daryl could do it – so could he.

He hoped.

He heard Daryl move away not a few moments later, bare feet resonating softly on the hardwood floor, and Rick’s eyes were trained downwards as he maneuvered himself towards the other side of the circle – far enough away that he could find a chance to breathe again but also close enough to still be within reach when he was needed. Though he was doing his absolute _best_ to keep his body turned away until it could calm the hell down, outright refusing to acknowledge the tightness in his jeans or the coiled amount of warmth that was tightening his abdomen in far too pleasant ways for his still spinning head. And as much as he wanted to not look at Daryl, he couldn’t help but watch him begin his ministrations for the ritual – the ritual they had spent all damn day preparing for.

The redneck slowly paced the bottom half of the circle, eyeing the design and tracing over it with his eyes carefully – as if trying to decide how to best approach the intricate picture on the floor. On the dresser behind him there were bowls, leather pouches with bits of the property in them, samples that he and Rick had gathered that afternoon in painstaking detail and precision, and he glanced at them a few times as well. Piecing together a puzzle in his head that Rick desperately wanted to see, though he knew he was going to be a living part of it in the moments that followed.

With a silent gesture, Daryl motioned for Rick to walk around the circle and replace himself where he stood by the dresser, and as Rick moved Daryl also began to carefully step into the circle – somehow able to stand among the spiraling lines of salt without disturbing the overall _vévé_ or any symbols therein. He settled just off center, staring down at everything, and then lowered himself down so he was crouched very carefully over the delicate designs. He reached out his hand slowly, able to keep perfect balance by pressing hard with his other hand into his leg to steady himself, and only glanced at Rick when the other seemed to find some certainty that he wouldn’t just tumble over into the piles and lines of salt.

“Stack’a those empty on’s fir’st,” he told Rick quietly but clearly, there were so many ways this could all get ruined and Daryl was making it very clear that both men needed to have their heads in the game – and not wherever they might have turned to only moments before. Rick nodded, and handed Daryl a stack of empty wooden bowls that Rick was almost sure were older than the both of them, and it took all of him to watch where he stepped as he toed the line of salt without disturbing a damn grain. The younger man placed the bowls carefully in the circle, setting them down slowly with such conviction that it was as if they belonged there in the design purposefully. And Rick was once again astounded by Daryl’s _memory_ because he hadn’t once consulted a book or diagram, the amazing display sprawled across the hardwood looked like an impossible thing – a freak bit of nature that had just grown out of the ground and appeared out of nowhere – in fact it almost looked _too_ perfect and Rick had to repress a shudder.

Also how Daryl could stay crouched that long in that position said a little too much of his leg and core strength and Rick had to clear his throat and shake himself a little before he focused on that too closely.

Next Daryl asked for the first element needed to complete what Rick could now see was a five-point star within the design, hidden until Rick noticed each bowl was placed at a point, the curves and spirals flowing like a moving stream along the floor and training the eye to move away from the drawing concealed there. There was an old well at one of the far corners of the plantation, among the abandoned trees and splintering fences that hadn’t been kept up in a long time, Rick making a mental note to do so when he had been leading Daryl that direction earlier that afternoon, and they managed to get some water from the bottom of it – muddied and dirty as it was. Daryl had sifted out the remnants of branches and leaves that had tumbled down the deeply dug expanse over the summer, leaving only a smooth and cold water the color of stone, which was what he ended up pouring into the first bowl closest to him. As carefully and slowly as he could so not one drop spilled out of the pitcher, or the bowl settled among the very soluble material curled around it like sleeping serpents. Rick had never been more scared to hand over a jug of water, and he had never seen Daryl move so slowly so as not to drop the heavy stone ceramic, but he managed to get the first element set in place and return the pitcher to Rick outside the circle without incident.

The second element was Earth, which was easy enough to complete, as Daryl put the bags of dirt they had gathered into the next bowl in the circle, with samples from each of the four corners of the property. Rick blinked slowly as a calm realization dawned on him, as careful and clear as the sunrise breaking over the trees, that in this intricate ritual they were bringing the entirety of the Grimes Plantation to this one point – drawn together like the edges of a piece of paper folded inward in origami, so that it created this complicated and beautiful picture that was wholly different than what it started as. And that was incredible.

“See tha’ mason jar,” Daryl asked him, pointing towards the empty jar on the dresser beside the other materials. Rick grabbed it without answering, holding it and inspecting it as if hoping to see whatever as special about it. “I need ya ta blow air into it, til it runs clear, then close it up.” Rick snapped his gaze up to Daryl, looking confused for a minute, his brain processing _til it runs clear_ first and foremost and he remembered the room was full of steam and smog and herbs. “If’n ya need ta step ou’tside do it quick, need fresh air not this pamper’d shit.” He hesitated, seeming to duck his head down, “An’ we need somethin’ that comes from ‘round here, sometin’ tha’s use’ta bein’ here.” He was very obviously leaving out that Rick had been absent from said place for almost six years, because Daryl had been the one to tell him he _didn’t_ belong there, but it was becoming more and more clear to Rick that might not have been necessarily true.

“Somethang that belongs to the house,” Rick added in a tone that might have sounded like a question, but wasn’t meant to be one. Rick was finally beginning to understand where all this careful planning was coming towards, was starting to see the bigger picture, and it was like slipping back into a pair of comfortable shoes. Something that fit him well and had been long molded to his body and his soul – he has grown into it after all. Rick might not have meant to ever belong to the swamps of White Oak, but it seemed neither had had a choice in the matter after the years he had been immersed in the heat and magik there. It was always going to be a part of him, no matter how hard he tried to shake it or how long he stayed away. It owned him.

Daryl’s whole body had gone carefully still, and Rick could feel his piercing gaze on him that was tinged with disapproval – he knew the stare all too well. “Ya don’t belong to th’ house.” His words were clipped low and short, brimming with an anger that Rick was also all too familiar with. And sad to say that made a small, cheerless smile twitch at the corner of his lips as he finally glanced at the man still crouched low to the ground like some primal creature Rick could never hope to know or touch.

“Yeah, I do.” He told the younger man, and then brought the mason jar up to his lips and blew in soft and careful. Watching as the steamed up air full or herbs and salts filtered out in a way that should have been impossible, the exact invert of blowing smoke from one’s lungs as the clean and clear air filtered in and the smoggy excess rolled and roiled until it escaped over the lip of the jar. It was entrancing to see, thrilling in that way impossible things always are, and Rick had to stop himself from laughing as a grin broke out across his lips because they were basically flipping off physics with this whole damn ritual and it was _incredible_. He closed the lid and captured the clear breath from his lungs – which also made _no_ sense – and then handed it over to Daryl. Who was still visibly pissed, but took it without another word and placed the whole jar in another bowl but this time to his right.

The last material piece that Rick could see Daryl needed were some pieces of bark and grass gathered but collected together – so there was no way to separate them, though Daryl had two bowls left. The hunter took the small pouch handed to him and poured the contents into the second bowl to his right, leaving the one directly across the circle from him empty, and then started fishing in his pockets for something that wasn’t there. Rick’s brain clicked that they were gathering all of the natural elements, and that the last was fire, just as Daryl turned to him for his lighter that Rick still had on him. Tossing the Zippo, he watched Daryl carefully light the grasses on fire so they began to burn the branches, the smoke mingling with the fog in the room and near invisible as the smoggy air made the area around the bowl glow amongst the flames. The branches finally caught, though for some reason the bowl did not, and then there were four elements placed in the four bowls to Daryl’s left and right: water, earth, air and fire.

Somewhere, in some distant memory, Rick could remember a younger Daryl describing to him how in his religion there were not four elements but five – and that the fifth was not something that was a physical element, but was still very much a part of the world around them at all times. It was loosely translated as _spirit_ , and it was the energy that moved between everything in the physical world and connected them all to that plane, and the one element that was the easiest to interact with the world opposite theirs. It was something Daryl was familiar with in the most intimate of ways, and Rick had to lean back and steady himself against the dresser as he watched Daryl adjust himself in the circle.

Among the candles and lightly misted air, salt lines and symbols that seemed to swirl and move around the bowls of bits of the world, Daryl was a vision of painted contours and sweat – hands outstretched in front of him in careful balance and strength, hovering with paint-tinted fingertips barely touching as they lingered over the empty bowl and his eyes closed in vigilant concentration. The negative space between his thumbs and pointer fingers mimicking an arrowhead to Rick’s eye, but that might have been his viewpoint – or his absolute fascination with anything that had to do with the youngest Dixon – so he watched quietly as Daryl did whatever he was doing. Blessing it, chanting in his head over it, reciting ancient spells or incantations that would distinguish the final element to lay in the bowl. Invisible to the naked eye, it would seem, because Rick kept waiting for minutes that stretched long in anticipation for something to appear in the place of vacant space. But nothing ever did.

Daryl just opened his narrowed pale blue eyes, cat-like in the dim light with the lines on his face and sharp shadows from his high cheekbones, and took in the picture with an amount of satisfaction that flirted across his expression so faintly Rick wouldn’t have seen it if he hadn’t been watching the man so closely. His eyes flicked up to meet Rick’s with a slight tilt of his head, and Rick didn’t know what he saw when he did – a man he had probably never hoped to see again standing there shirtless and painted in white lines sounded ridiculous in his own head, but Daryl’s eyes _burned_ in that moment and Rick couldn’t help but take a deep breath and wait for whatever he wanted to say.

“Need ya to step real careful.” Daryl started, still not moving from his position hunkered down on bended knees, and Rick hoped he wouldn’t have to mimic him because he wasn’t sure he could stay like that for that long. With a few gestures, Daryl got him to stand toe to toe with the line of salt that made the circle of the _vévé,_ and then pointed to a small space that Rick’s feet _might_ fit in between as he tip-toed into position. “Yer jus’ comin’ to help lend energ’y, step there an’ther’.” He pointed to spots that had Rick’s feet directly parallel to his own, and then gestured for Rick to come closer to the ground like himself. Rick had to suppress a groan, but did as he was told and lowered himself to the ground, balancing himself with only his fingertips and being so acutely aware of every precise line of salt that it took him a good few minutes to find his balance on the balls of his feet – and then he was face to face with Daryl Dixon, surrounded with every piece of Voodou he had ever been introduced to, and it was in that moment he was hit with how much faith and trust he still put in the other man. He was always at his mercy, no matter how stubborn Rick could be he always listened to every muttered syllable that slipped past Daryl’s lips like it was gospel. Followed him so blindly, even after all these years, that it should scare him – but instead a feeling of acceptance settled pleasantly where the knot of tension had been resting in the pit of his stomach the past few days. This was something he knew well, the Daryl he knew well, this was where Rick knew where they both stood.

Daryl reached for him and Rick raised his own arms without a second thought, his balance momentarily thrown because – yes, he had _no_ core strength despite the creased lines around the muscles in his chest and torso – but Daryl caught him. Their hands grasping the other’s forearms to hold them steady and create this connection that was so solid and grounding Rick immediately felt more at ease than he had even before, even on unsteady and wobbling feet, until they were both still as statues. The only movement being Rick’s steady breath, his heart pounding in his chest, and Daryl’s pulse under his fingertips from where he grasped the other’s arms. Their heart rates were beating out of time, in different levels of fast and frantic, but within a few minutes they synced to something steady like a drumbeat – and it helped center Rick further to the point he was rooted to the ground. A hurricane couldn’t have shaken his form, and the deputy then understood why Daryl had been able to stay in one spot for so long.

But Daryl didn’t let go, just breathed in deep and exhaled through his nose as he looked at Rick’s face – or the lines on Rick’s face, the other couldn’t be sure – gathering himself before he spoke again.

“I nee’ja ta hold ont’ me, no matt’r what happ’ns,” he told Rick low and quiet, just in the space between them as if it was a secret, and Rick nodded once in understanding – in case something was listening to them. Too many horrifying, life-altering things had happened in rituals with the Dixons for Rick to take his words lightly. So he held on tighter, the squeeze of his hands more affirming to Daryl than the nod he had sent his way.

With that, Daryl bowed his head down – Rick doing the same, already seeing that symmetry was a key point to the ritual – and Daryl began to chant in that foreign language that was not French. Rick knew that now, he had begun taking a few classes the second semester he spent in Community college, because apparently he was a masochist. There were a few words and sounds that were very similar, making Rick wonder what the real language was, but soon Daryl’s deep and quiet drawl that flourished and rolled off his tongue in words and phrases that felt like a verbal painting it was strung so beautifully lulled him to a meditation-like state. His whole body buzzed, burned from staying crouched down though he didn’t dare move and wasn’t sure he could if he tried, and Daryl’s firm grip on his arms felt like an open electric current that made him aware of every molecule of skin. As the minutes passed he pressed heavier and heavier into his toes and the front of his feet to hold him up, and it wasn’t until his forehead brushed against Daryl’s that he noticed they had drifted together – the two of them, and Rick’s whole body jolted, lightly like a static shock before relaxing into the other. Daryl’s body radiated warmth, and though his eyes were closed Rick couldn’t help but feel so _close_ to the other. He hadn’t felt this close to another human being in a long time, not even when aiding someone in an accident or during those bad calls that put a person’s life in his hands. In that moment he felt stripped bare, pliable and melding to the closest thing to him – and of course it was Daryl Dixon. It was always going to be Daryl Dixon. Rick never felt more alive than when he was in his presence, and at times back home that almost got him killed – it was a tragic and devastating thing to realize he almost never had a chance to feel this again. This closeness, this _realness_ , this connection. He had almost driven home and never looked back.

And because of what? Pride? His forever broken heart? Some misplaced anger that was always shifting blame? All paled in comparison to that moment. If Rick could have this, and only this, he’d die a happy man.

Something heavy seemed to seep into the air, mingled and stained the steam and herbs and scents around them, slowing their breathing even further – hot and thick like breathing air from a furnace. Rick shifted involuntarily, lifting his head a few inches though keeping the physical connection through touch, his breath now fanning across Daryl’s cheeks as he tried to open his throat and breathe easier. All in vain, only causing Daryl to press his forehead more into Rick’s, nose brushing his own, never stopping his chanting, doing just as he said he would. Finding strength in Rick’s presence, leaning on him, the energy still flowing through where their hands were grasping each other, and it felt intimate but not in a sexual sense. The energy between the two men was distinctly different from the heaviness surrounding them, and what was surrounding them was becoming more and more palpable the longer Daryl chanted. Building into something blinding and solid until it was as if they were under water, and Rick wasn’t sure he could breathe at all.

He hadn’t known his mouth had dropped open, gasping for breath he couldn’t grasp, until Daryl’s forehead turned and thrashed against his own as he pressed further into Rick – also not able to breathe – though he did his damnest to keep talking, chanting, and Rick wondered if there was something in the room sucking all the oxygen out to cease his words in his throat. To stop the ritual since they couldn’t enter the circle of salt, though Rick wasn’t sure what was happening with the bowls circled around them. He opened his eyes, not knowing when he had shut them, only able to see Daryl bent over with his own eyes scrunched tight as he tried to keep forming words on his tongue. His gaze drifted down, lack of oxygen making it hazy, and was stunned to see the elements seemed to be intermingling – the water in the wooden bowl had begun to boil, the fire thrashed in its confines as if being blown into, the bags had begun to disintegrate and the dirt intermingle, and the jar of air looked to be swimming though it remained unopened. And the fifth bowl, before completely empty, seemed to shine and gleam until the brightness was becoming noticeably brighter with each second. Rick wasn’t sure if it was his own eyesight becoming blinding, and he knew he should shut his eyes in that moment, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do so until the bowl housing the fifth element shone as bright as the sun and he snapped them shut. Turning his face into Daryl’s once more, whose words were breathy things that could scarcely be heard in the pulsing thunderous drumbeat of his heart in his ears. All combining into a crescendo of sensation as his lungs screamed at him and his own voice clawed at his throat and Rick couldn’t _breathe_ but he could feel every bit of Daryl in front of him so painfully clear it was almost too much.

And then it all peaked.

An explosion made them topple over into a heap, pushed them into the sprawling lines of salt and making the atmosphere disappear like a wisp of smoke – drastic and deafening. Rick’s legs and thighs burned from being crouched so long, and his hands did not want to let go of Daryl’s arms, having seized up in those moments before the brightness had overcome them and blown like a powder keg. They were covered in sweat, the lines on their skin melting with it and dripping down their skin, and both men looked toward the source of the blast – the fifth bowl.

It was blown apart, broken and smoldering, and within its splintered remains were four dirt stained hex bags – the ones that Daryl had buried at the four corners of the property. Now smoldering and smoking, catching fire before their eyes and burning on display.

“Dam’it,” Daryl cursed, close enough the word was spoken against Rick’s skin where Daryl was hovering near his shoulder – both sitting up and watching their entire day’s work burn into nothingness among the ruined remains of the _vévé_. Rick could feel the salt sticking to the slickness on his arms and elbows, his drenched jeans and his back uncomfortably, almost as much as the sinking cold feeling reforming in his stomach.

“It didn’t work,” Rick pointed out, not a question but a statement that had to be said out loud for it to be real. How could it _not work_?

Daryl didn’t answer him, just shifted so he was fully sitting up, leaning forward and resting his arms on bended knees to watch the fire burn like the smoldering embers would tell him something about what was going on. And for all Rick knew it would, maybe he could read the damn ashes like tea leaves, anything to make the whole ritual not a complete waste.

But the fire finished with a quiet snuff, unnatural and yet another impossible thing that Rick wouldn’t have believed if he hadn’t been watching it just as intently – while pretending he wasn’t keeping a vigilant eye on Daryl out of his peripheral. But the end of the fire, without even a thin trail of smoke, seemed to say enough to the young Dixon and he heaved a sigh through his nose that was exhaled slow and exhausted. Exasperated almost, and lightly annoyed, though Rick could share the sentiment. His stare was tired and flirted with a glare, Rick turning his head to take in the expression more fully, and Daryl’s narrowed gaze jumped to him for only a brief moment. Rick really wanted to know why Daryl couldn’t seem to look at him for longer than a minute, certainly no longer than a breath or a few calm heart beats – just long enough to realize he was and then turn away.

“Well, t’s tied ta somethin’ in the house,” Daryl grumbled, still not moving from the floor so Rick didn’t either. A few candles were still lit, though most had been blown out by the blast, so the shadows were even starker and left high contrast across their warm skin in the quiet.

“Take it that’s not a good thang,” Rick muttered back, not sure why they were being quiet when the thing in the house had so obviously won this round.

“Means we gotta find wh’tev’r it’s tied to, and yer house ‘s fuckin’ _huge_ – so no, no’ a good thin’,” Daryl shifted his cat-like gaze to Rick once more – his annoyed yet resigned look punctuating the meaning behind how much time it was going to take for them to fix this - before hauling himself to his feet and extending a hand to Rick. The deputy took it gratefully, he still couldn’t feel his damn legs, and let Daryl’s warm grasp haul him up as well with incredible strength. God _damn_ those arms weren’t just for fucking show were they?

Nope, don’t do that Grimes. Such progress today, don’t ruin it.

A few more minutes passing found them outside once more, Daryl having donned his shirt with the sleeves ripped off (Thank _God_ ) and Rick had gotten a button down in place of his soaked Police academy shirt. He was still boiling so it wasn’t buttoned all the way, but the breeze outside felt nice on his still sweat-damp skin, the paint drying on his chest once more in the half melted lines that were exposed around his collarbones and sternum. It was getting itchy around the patches of hair there, and Rick must’ve been scratching at them noticeably because Daryl kept staring at that area. Or maybe the lines themselves, Rick wasn’t sure in the fading evening light, but Daryl’s eyes gleamed with the cherry burn of his cigarette when he inhaled deeply – and Rick was _not_ paying attention to how his cheeks hollowed out with the motion, not a bit.

His eyes must have also been playing tricks in the low light, because the way Daryl’s eyes burned in the soft red glow when he breathed in made Rick swallow hard with what he thought he saw there. It must’ve been projection, Rick knew he’d been eyeing Daryl like a fucking piece of meat all damn day, but the hungry gleam that flashed in the other’s eyes shifted so seamlessly with his normal blank expression Rick couldn’t even be sure it was ever there. The silence was no longer comfortable between them, but filled with anticipation for something that was not going to happen, and Rick had to shift and cross his leg over his knee to hide the effects the whole thing was having on his body.

“So,” he started, and his voice sounded like it was physically dragged from his throat, “we uh… we start again tomorrow, then?” Rick proposed, not sure if he had misread what Daryl had said in the dark confines of the haunted bedroom. His words seemed to shake Daryl of whatever deep trance he had been in, and his eyes shifted minutely to lock with Rick’s own.

“…Ya ain’t leavin’?” Daryl mumbled quietly, uncertain and cautiously hopeful. It reflected in his eyes, the slivers Rick could see, and Rick didn’t know what that meant.

But he shook his head, watching the treeline and the shadows creeping along it as the sun finally traveled below the sea of branches and leaves. “Not ‘til she’s safe,” he said firmly, heard clearly over the soft chorus of crickets and cicadas in the trees around the sides of the house. Rick wasn’t going to leave until he was sure that his Grandmother was going to be okay in the ancient plantation house, though he still disliked her living there alone.

Daryl nodded once, expression shifting into something complacent and somewhat amused – like he should have known Rick’s answer all along – and he followed Rick’s gaze to the swamp and the shapes the shadows were taking between the trees. Letting the silence settle from the roiling boil it had been in to a sweet simmer for a few minutes before answering the deputy.

“Yeah,” he told Rick, quiet but just as clear, “we’ll star’ agai’n tomorrow.”

Rick walked him to the front of the house, around the front steps to where his motorcycle sat catching the last faint traces of light in the shining chrome accent pieces. It was still an impressive bit of machinery, and Rick couldn’t help the way he soaked in every sleek curve and let the memories of riding on it pressed against Daryl’s back as teenagers fill his senses. Had he chosen to be a police officer instead of a sheriff’s deputy he would have been given the choice of a squad car or a bike, though Rick would’ve turned it down so he could keep Shane as a riding partner – but the thought was still enticing, and Rick found himself tracing his tongue along his teeth to try and keep from gawking at the vehicle. It wasn’t like he’d never seen it before, but damn did Daryl take good care of it.

The hunter sidled up to the other side, and threw a leg over the machine, standing straddling the bike and watching Rick’s face with a smirk. “See somethin’ ya like?” Rick glared at him as the other huffed his non-laughter that tugged at his lips in ways that made Rick’s body burn hot. Daryl lowered himself to the seat with a practiced grace that said he rode the bike more than Merle did, and Rick had to wonder if the older man had finally just gifted it to his baby brother after he had lost the use of his hand – though he doubted Merle would just give up on finding a way to ride his bike. He’d found a way to light his own cigarettes after all. But Rick kept his questions to himself, ducking his head and about to shift back so the Dixon could pull out of the driveway.

“Shut it, get home safe,” he said before he could stop himself, and his words were almost drowned out by Daryl starting the bike – the thunderous rumble echoing across the plantation grounds and filling up the space where awkward surprise should have been. It showed in Daryl’s face when his head snapped up to Rick at his words, though he seemed to get over it after a moment’s hesitation. They had decided to be civil, try again to be friends – it took all damn day but they had done it, it just took the Dixon a while to remember it was a two-way street. Rick should have been given medals for his patience.

Nodding in understanding, Daryl cut a glance at Rick, and his hands twisted around the handles like he wanted to do something with them as they stretched long on the low-rider. “Ya be careful t’night, alone ‘n there. Salt yer door and shit, an’ call the house ‘f ya need somethin’. Anythin’.”

“Yes, Mom,” Rick teased with a smile, chin still tucked in a little to try and hide the expression, but by Daryl’s huff he could see it clearly. The aborted movement of Daryl letting go of the handle and reaching out to pat the closest thing he could reach – as he had done to his shoulder and back quite a few times that night – ended up being his stomach from his low vantage point. And it should have been _more_ awkward, but it wasn’t, just comforting and solid. Then Daryl was rolling backwards until he could turn around and make his way down the winding drive. Rick watching until his lone headlight turned onto the plantation road and disappeared around the bend of trees.

The whole day had been so _heated_ , quite literally, as well as electrically charged, and frustratingly difficult, but had ended so _easy_ that it left a pleasant sensation buzzing about Rick’s limbs. Everything just felt right, as it should have been, even the imagined burning glances Rick had thought he’d seen in the candlelight. The arousal that licked at his nerves and skin, prickled along his scalp and the back of his neck, was something that was also missed and felt almost _needed_ to righten the balance that Rick hadn’t really noticed it was what had made the end of the day easier until it was over. When he realized what he had consciously surrendered to.

He was so very, hopelessly screwed.

“Fuck.”

\--

Rick woke to warmth hovering over him, a presence that was familiar and not unwelcome, but confusing as fuck. He knew it was Daryl before he had even opened his eyes, half expecting the other to shake him awake and tell him he had overslept – or that they needed to get up before the sun to start another ritual that would help find the possessed object in the house – but he did not expect to see Daryl over him. Really _over_ him, arms bracketing his torso, knees on either side of his thighs, still not completely eye level with him and watching him with dark eyes that should not have looked so bright when the room was absent of light.

“Daryl?” Rick asked, not recognizing the breathy word as his own voice, still pitched low from sleep and his head swimming groggily. But he snapped wide awake when Daryl moved further up his body, hands coming up to either side of his face and legs now straddling his lap as he held himself over Rick’s form lying in bed. “W-What’re ya doin’?” he slurred, stuttered, confused and borderline terrified.

“What I shoul’da done alre’dy,” Daryl rumbled low, and Rick could barely believe the words were coming out of the younger Dixon, but he was leaning down and brushing his nose with Rick’s in a gesture so tender and familiar it stabbed through Rick’s heart painfully. He was so warm, breath fanning over his face sweetly, and then Daryl was closing the distance and pressing his mouth against Rick’s slack-jawed expression. It took the deputy about 0.2 seconds to sink into the kiss, melt into it, feeling Daryl breathe him in and sigh against his lips and lower to his forearms so he was pressing closer to Rick. From thighs to chest they were fused tight, hot, burning and Rick did _not_ know when the blanket had disappeared between them but he still fit to every curve and line of Daryl’s hard body like he had back when they were young and in love. His arms wove around the other’s neck, held on for dear fucking life because _this couldn’t be real_.

Their kisses were hot and suffocating in the best of ways, Rick felt like he was drowning in the other and he didn’t fucking care if he _died_ kissing Daryl as long as the moment didn’t stop.

Rocking up into the hunter, hips canting up and chasing friction that was building whether he liked it or not, Rick felt how hard Daryl was – and fuck he had missed that too. The sparks up his spine, the arousal coiling low and hot in his groin, the gasp that broke them apart and finally gave Rick a chance to gasp for breath. But Daryl didn’t stop moving, as if he had no need for air, and traced rough, hot lips and sharp teeth over his jaw and down his neck. Sliding as fluid as water down Rick’s body, licking a trail down his heaving chest – when the _fuck_ had he lost his shirt? Did he go to bed with one on? His limbs and muscles had started trembling and shaking sometime between Daryl’s hot tongue dipping into his navel and his blunt teeth scraping over a hipbone, chasing the breath out of Rick’s lungs once more.

Fingers pressed hard into Rick’s side, Daryl holding him in place as he traveled further down and nuzzled at the bulge in Rick’s pajama bottoms, which had him sucking a harsh breath between his gritted teeth and arching into the touch. Daryl’s nails raked down his torso, maybe a touch too hard, but _God_ Rick hoped they left red trails along his skin so he knew that this had actually happened the next day – he needed physical proof it was real. It fucking _felt_ real, so damn real when Daryl pulled the waistline of his pants to his thighs and cold air hit his dick as it sprung free hard as a goddamn rock. Rick didn’t even have the time to heave a breath in relief before Daryl was pulling him into his hot, wet mouth and Rick had to put a fist between his teeth to keep from shouting.

Holy _fuck –_ Daryl was _blowing_ him!

Really, _really_ well he might add, tongue swiveling around the head in a way that made Rick’s eyes roll back in his head, tracing up the underside of his dick and not coming up for air as he worked Rick’s dick like he was born to do so. One hand holding his left hip down as Rick bucked up into the feeling, the Dixon gagging but not stopping his ministrations, bobbing his head and using his forearm to press hard into Rick’s other hipbone and grasp his other hand around the base of his dick. So all Rick felt was a dizzying amount of warmth and the wet filthy slide of saliva dripping over Daryl’s hand to slick it up and move better to jerk the inches he couldn’t fit in his mouth.

In the split second where Rick’s brain wasn’t melting out his ears, he realized he shouldn’t be shivering as much as he was – practically convulsing in his bed – and that Daryl was _too_ good at this. But he couldn’t have blown a guy before, he hadn’t been with anyone _but_ Rick, and he’d never had the courage as a teen to go down on the older boy. Rick hadn’t known he could do this, where he had found the motivation, hell he knew _everything_ about Daryl.

“No’ anymore,” he heard Daryl say, clear as fucking day, but there was still something insanely pleasurable wrapped around his dick and tracing their tongue along the slit in ways that made Rick’s hands shake. His head snapped up in time to see Daryl smirk with his dick shoved down his throat, and come up for air with a pop that had Rick’s breath stuttering in his chest. The smirk never left his overworked lips, red and dark and dripping wet as sin, his voice wrecked and low as he continued, “An’ not back then neith’r, _ya never did_.”

\--

The words hit him like a knife to the gut, slicing through and seizing up his insides if they hadn’t already been shaking and trembling beyond belief – but the shock had him sitting straight up in bed to an empty room. The damp, cold wet in his boxers told Rick he came in his sleep, but his whole body was _freezing_ , shivering and so cold in places they burned. Barely able to look down his bare torso he was trembling so, he could see distinct dark marks were pressed into his skin where Daryl’s hands had been, red nail marks raked down his sides, and his hip bones ached like someone had been gnawing on them though only faint bruising showed in patterns that matched fingers holding him down. And lastly his lips were numb, tingling slightly as feeling tried to come back into them, and his quivering fingers found them absently but he couldn’t feel the touch. It was like he’d had his mouth pressed against a damn block of ice, the cold clinging to his lips uncomfortably and alarmingly disorienting.

It had been a dream, a fucking _dream_.

But the marks were real, the cold was real, and the feeling that he wasn’t alone in the house was _definitely_ very – very real. Something had done this to him, and as he shifted awkwardly in his come-soaked boxers a flush tried to warm his face hotly in embarrassment and shame. He couldn’t help but feel – fuck he felt _violated_ , and wished more than anything that the phone wasn’t hanging on the wall in the kitchen two floors below his bedroom. This created a whole new level of fucked up, another layer of the haunting that was happening in his grandparent’s home, and entangled Rick even more in its seemingly inescapable web.

How the hell was he supposed to look Daryl in the face the next day? And after the sleepless night that stretched before him, how was he going to stay another night in that house alone? Could he even tell Daryl what was going on without directing his attention away from the spirit hurting his grandmother, which was far more important?

Endless questions left unanswered buzzed around inside his head, and all paled to the question if Rick was still alone – or if something was still there in the room watching him.

“… _Shit.”_

 


	6. Ditmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies, my life is kind of hectic right now but I managed to get this chapter finished and ready for you C: it's a little slower, but there's some new characters showing up so I hope you enjoy that. I'm currently in the process of moving, our date got pushed up by nearly 4 weeks so I'm frantically packing while also prepping for the Walker Stalker Cruise this year. Super exciting and I'm trying to not freak out that I get to meet Norman again (but let's face it, I'm a mess) - and as soon as I get back my husband and I are moving. I can't guarantee when the next chapter will happen but I'm already in the process of writing it so I have high hopes.
> 
> Thank you to the amazing The_Royal_Gourd for betaing for me with such a time crunch <3 and thank you to all who cheered me on and to everyone still waiting and checking often for a new chapter. One day soon I'll be back on a regular schedule. No warnings this time, any mistakes left are my fault. Hope you enjoy C:

\--

\--

The days stretched out like an endless length of road, blurring together until the rotation of breaking daylight over the trees and falling darkness became a sickening cycle, a constant push-pull of fear and anticipation that clawed at the back of the throat and stayed there more often than not. Because eventually Daryl would leave, and Rick would be left to turn in for the night all alone in the giant plantation house; he had insisted that his mother and grandmother find another place to sleep while he and Daryl were trying to make the mansion habitable again. Though they had no idea how long that might be, and with each passing day Rick could feel their absence in the house like a physical thing – pressing in as heavy and suffocating as the silence that was never as quiet as he hoped. There was always something moving, breathing, walking the halls, _existing_ within the Grimes house.

It soon became a routine that Daryl would show up every day just as the sun rose, sometimes even before Rick came downstairs – although with the nights the deputy had been having there wasn’t much sleep going on in Rick’s bedroom. It was always… interrupted – and any hours he could grasp ended up being cut short around 3am without fail. Daryl’s presence was a welcomed one, increasing in its severity with each passing day, and soon the reverberating hum of his motorcycle coming up the winding drive was a sound of reprieve instead of despair. Rick had even started offering the other _breakfast_ , although most of the time all Daryl would want was coffee – he looked about as exhausted as Rick felt most mornings, and it made the other wonder what the redneck was getting up to when he left at sundown each day.

Not enough to ask those first few days, with the two staying busy from sun-up to sundown, but it seemed to get worse every time Rick saw him. Only after it became apparent that Daryl might just not be sleeping at all did Rick’s mouth get away from him before he could reprimand his wandering thoughts.

“Look like ya ain’t slept in a week,” he commented one morning, ironically about a week after their failed ritual with the five elements. Daryl just grunted into his coffee mug, downing it like water as he continued to read intently – his eyes hazily trained on one of the volumes he had dragged over days before with pages upon pages describing possession and cursed objects and location spells. Most were in other languages, a few in French (which Rick could now vaguely read, though it was difficult upside down), and others in what he had learned to be Haitian French. It was an entirely different dialect and language that Rick could only recognize through nuances and similar phrases or words, but was utter gibberish to him otherwise – though even the French novels were far more advanced than anything he had learned through his two semesters experience at community college. “Havin’ trouble?” he continued to pry.

“Sleep’f’ne,” Daryl muttered behind the porcelain rim of his mug right before he drained the cup and set it down closer to Rick for a refill. The pronounced bruises under his eyes said a different story, as did his sluggish dismissal and intense focus on the pages in front of him – Rick had been at that stage before, run himself into the ground with endless shifts and classes and _finals_ as well as the holidays his first semester back at school. Had taken on far too many classes, said yes to too many parties and events, and helped cover a couple shifts for the deputies who actually had families they wanted to spend Christmas with. He’d ended up sleeping for three days straight when he was done, or near enough, to recover from the 14 days of hell he had endured. Learned not only his limit but his lesson in making sure he didn’t run himself ragged. All part of being an adult, he supposed, finding out that there was such a thing as doing too much.

Which was why Rick had the sneaking suspicion that Daryl left every night at sundown because he had somewhere else to be, and was spending his time wherever that was pretty much until the sun rose and he ended up back on the Grimes plantation the following day. He also had the feeling it had something to do with his family business, which meant Rick could have very little say in convincing the youngest Dixon his health was more important – not that he would’ve had that sway over the other in a different situation either. Those days were long gone, no matter how much Rick’s bones ached to at least _try._

“If you say so,” he said back, showing he wasn’t convinced but wasn’t going to push, which really was all the push Daryl would need – and his narrowed glare told Rick that his words would stick with the hunter long past when he left later that evening. “Long as yer gettin’ rest, I know yer busy and stuff. Must be missing you back home while yer here all day.” Rick knew by that point that he would be more talking to himself and the room around them, because not only was Daryl not going to answer his insinuation but he probably was out right ignoring him as soon as he mentioned home. Might’ve continued to do so if Rick hadn’t refilled his coffee at that exact moment, regaining the other’s attention – what could he say, he had a lot of practice with good timing, and a lot of interrogation tactics down from his years on the force. He liked to think he was being sneaky about it, but Daryl was hard to read and impossible to decipher; there was no way to tell if he knew Rick was trying to get more information out of him – or if he even cared. Man was like a damn sphinx.

“They’ll live,” Daryl mumbled dismissively, flipping the page of his book to a diagram that had his shoulders shifting until they were strung tight as a bow. A bomb could’ve dropped on the house and Daryl’s eyes wouldn’t have left the page.

“What?” Rick asked, rounding the island they’d been sitting at to inspect the book as well – even knowing full well he wouldn’t be able to read it. The picture showed a crude drawing of a one-story house, with something dark and flowing that sported a wicked smile hovering inside of it, and that smile was what drew Rick’s eye first. The second was the bright amount of cobalt blue smeared across the page, covering what would indicate the floor of the house, and it was the only speck of color that Rick had ever seen in Daryl’s books besides black and brown and red.

“m fuckin’ stupid tha’s what,” Daryl bit out, pointing not at the picture of the house smeared in blue, but a complicated diagram in the top corner of the page that Rick hadn’t noticed. “Us’d this damn locatin’ spell hundreds o’times, ta find places on a map – forgo’ I could use it ta find curs’d object’s too.” His hands had clenched into fists, knuckles pressed hard into the counter top to hold himself up and glare down at the book, and Rick didn’t know what was making him so mad about forgetting the particulars of a spell but he also wasn’t sure he wanted to know. “Fuckin’ stupid.”

“You ain’t stupid, you’re tired,” Rick reprimanded, giving Daryl a look despite the glare that was shot his way. “Don’ beat yerself up over somethang like this when you’ve been living off nuthin’ but coffee and good intentions th’past three days.” He knew he was right and so did Daryl, by the huff and squaring of his shoulders as he hung his head low to inspect the sprawled French writings across the page more closely, so Rick dropped the subject of the redneck’s nightly activities once again. Rick had his own secrets that he was keeping. They coincided with his need to get this spell figured out and whatever it was out of his house – and out of his bed. If Rick was going to keep secrets then it was only fair that Daryl could keep some of his own. No matter how much Rick wanted to be nosey about it. “What’s this?” he asked instead, pointing to the streak of blue across the other diagram on the page.

“Jus’ sayin’ we gotta blue th’house,” Daryl said simply, like the answer made sense and was also an annoyance to him. “Pain ‘n th’ass ta do, but needs ta be done I guess. Don’ know where the fuck ta get bluestones ‘round here,” he trailed off, standing up straight with his shoulders back and arms crossed in a stance Rick was used to seeing. Meant they had a direction, which was good – the two had been chasing their tails for days after the initial few searches through the house for whatever the malevolent spirit might be tied to.

“There somewhere else we can order them from?” Rick inquired, also crossing his arms and leaning a hip against the counter to give Daryl his attention.

“Any Hoodou shop ‘n New Orleans,” Daryl told him with a twitch of his hand flippantly, before returning it to thumb at the patch of hair on his chin in thought. Which was endearing, as well as _insanely_ distracting, and Rick pointedly ignored the gestures as much as he could will himself to. “Can make a’couple calls, get ‘em here ‘n a few days.”

“Least that’ll give us some time to recoup a’little,” Rick pointed out, sweeping a glance around the kitchen that was a _mess,_ and held the remnants of their accumulative efforts from the past week. That would be his only saving grace if his mother or grandmother saw the state it was in. The counters were covered in bits of plant life and dirt, books and papers and pens scattered among the debris, along with various bowls and old boxes that were coated in dust and cobwebs from before either of them were born. Both the kitchen island and the table had stacks of books from Rick’s Grandmother’s library as well as Daryl’s back home, and the sinks were full of dishes that needed to be washed and smelled like the swamp water they had poured down the drains in days past. His mother would have a heart attack at the sight, but Rick had never felt more safe in a room inside their plantation house than that messy kitchen – it felt so separate from the life his grandparents had created within its high walls. This was an extension of the world beyond the mansion, dragged and tracked in through their moss-stained hands and dirt caked boots, and it was as soothing as a balm to his wrecked and rattled nerves. “I can straighten some of this up, makes some calls back home, check on my Ma and Gan’ma – start fresh in a few days.” He turned to see Daryl press both palms to his eyes heavily and barely contain a groan as he rubbed into the sockets harshly like he could block out everything in front of him so thoroughly it would just disappear.

“Shit – I kno’ ya gotta get back e‘vent’lly. Can’ stay stuck ou’ here f’rever.” There was something strange about the way Daryl grumbled out the words, slipped from his lips so easy and sloppy Rick knew he hadn’t meant to say it the way he did – and that gave him pause. Shane had always said that he didn’t want to be stuck in White Oak the rest of his life, his legacy keeping him there until he died – just like his pa and his grandpa and his great-grandpa before him, but he managed to leave just fine it seemed. For someone like Rick, who crossed state lines as easily as crossing the street, he had never understood the small town logic that where you were raised is where you remained. That if your roots were in a place similar to White Oak, then they would stay rooted like the most stubborn of trees in the swamp, so interwoven with others for so long it at some point became impossible to untangle yourself enough to just _get away_. In Rick’s mind, there was nothing stopping someone from just – taking anything that means something and getting in a car and leaving – nothing except the person themselves, and how much they were leaving behind meant to them. Responsibility could be an impossibly heavy thing, as could the guilt of abandoning it, but it wasn’t that concrete and it was never that black and white – leaving didn’t always mean abandonment, and getting away could be the best thing that ever happened to someone if they managed it. Not that he had any room to talk, locking himself into King County so soundly he couldn’t imagine leaving.

But Rick had used to think that way, and he had almost gotten Daryl to see things that way too, once upon a time. They had almost driven out of White Oak and never looked back, and there’s no saying what kind of men that would have turned them into or where they would’ve ended up. What kind of future they could’ve had together.

“They’ll survive without me, I’m sure,” Rick drawled quietly, parroting the hunter’s earlier mumblings enough for Daryl to peek one pale blue eye at him from behind his hands. “I need to use the vacation days, and this is more important – so you recharge your batteries and we’ll try again after the weekend. I’ll go bunk with my mom at the Greene’s in the meantime.” His tone was calm and even, warm to the point he could physically see Daryl’s shoulders releasing some of the tension in the solid line they had created, and he couldn’t help preening a little at the thought that he still had some comforting effect on the Dixon. Couldn’t stop himself from pivoting from where he stood and reaching to squeeze one broad shoulder, half bare with his ripped shirt, just to feel the slope of them as Daryl let himself sag against the counter top without the over-bearing burden of time pressing on him – and it became even more apparent how tired the younger man was. “C’mon, help me clean th’s up and then you can ge’ some shut eye.”

“Ain’t gonna sleep at home,” Daryl groused quietly as he hauled himself to his feet, not at all complaining about having something to do besides making sense of the foreign words sprawled across ancient pages. Rick didn’t even have to ask to know that he didn’t mean that he _couldn’t_ sleep at home, just that the occupants of said house were not going to let him.

“Crash on the couch then,” Rick offered, rounding the island to turn on the faucet and start in on the dishes first, letting his mouth crook up at the side in a small smile when Daryl followed his steps and settled in next to him to wipe away at the counter until it was clean enough to set dry dishes. Throwing a clean rag over his shoulder for drying before starting in on the smudges of dirt and branches and tree sap, not paying much mind to Rick beside him or how their hips, elbows and shoulders bumped as they worked. “Don’ expect ta rest to well here either, though. They like to mess with ya while yer sleepin’.” Rick kept to himself the particulars of how his sleep was disrupted, night after night without fail, not wanting to add more to Daryl’s already over-burdened plate.

There was another reason he wanted to give them both a couple days rest; Rick was very much looking forward to consecutive nights of uninterrupted sleep on the Greene’s couch or floor or wherever they felt like putting him.

Anything would be better than what he had been enduring at 3 am every morning.

“I’ll pu’ up some mor’ wards,” Daryl murmured dismissively, taking the first dripping wet dish from Rick after he scrubbed it, and Rick just huffed at how absolutely _everything_ seemed so much easier with Daryl around.

“Scribble some on my doors while you’re at it.”

\--

Together the two young men finished straightening up the house without too much disruption, although it took a few minutes for Rick to find both boots after he had packed up his Sheriff’s bag with some clothes and necessities. Daryl had stuck around while he finished locking up the house for the few days he would be gone, and made some phone calls back to Kentucky, opting to crash on the couch and catch an hour or two while Rick puttered around. If the deputy dragged his feet so the younger man could sleep longer, well – that would be between him and the spirits in the walls. He didn’t even get to the phone calls he needed until late in the afternoon.

The County Sheriff had actually been in that day, and they had spoken for a while about his current cases and how his leave would be extended to use the rest of his accumulated vacation hours – they had even set a date that his vacation would turn to unpaid, if it came to that, as well as a promise from the deputy that he would check in weekly with updates on his grandmother’s health. Rick had chosen to use that as a reason instead of the old “her house is haunted and I’m working with my ex-boyfriend to find a cursed object” excuse. The sheriff had been very understanding, though he had to throw in a ‘dog ate my homework’ joke to prove his point to Rick that he was putting a lot of trust in the deputy. “You’re one of the best on the force, kid – don’ mess it up.”

“No, sir,” Rick agreed sincerely. “I wouldn’t be staying if it wasn’ important, thank you again for allowing me the time.”

“Well it’s not like you’ve ever taken a vacation before, Grimes. We were ‘bout to buy you a cruise ticket and send you away by force for two weeks.”

“Appreciated, but not necessary sir,” Rick laughed. “I know my limits.”

“After that Christmas two years ago I sure as fuck hope so,” the older man laughed, then coughed to cover his slip while Rick chuckled into the phone. “Talk to you next weekend, Grimes.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Rick chimed down the line with a grin before hanging up and making the call he had strategically chosen to have _after_ he’d spoken to his boss.

“Walsh.”

“Woah there detective, last name only? You in the middle of a case?” Rick joked, poking at his friend’s love of crime dramas that he’d _never_ admit to. “Am I interrupting an interrogation? I can call back-”

“Shut up, asshole,” he heard Shane grin down the phone. “Where the hell are ya? Thought you were s’posed ta be back Monday, I’m stuck with _Leon Basset_ as a riding partner and I’m about to blow my damn brains out.”

“He ain’t that bad, just give him the CV manual and tell him ta learn to hail someone in a semi-truck. He’ll chase his tail for a while.”

“Ha! Those CV’s suck to crap, even I’m not tha’ cruel,” Shane laughed outright, loud and boisterous.

“Yes, you are.”

“Yeah, I am,” he drawled in agreement, and Rick could practically see him leaning back in whatever seat he was reclined in. “You ain’t still in White Oak, are ya?”

“Mm-hmm,” Rick hummed, sitting down himself on the barstool at the kitchen island once more. “Might be for a little while, Gan’ma is havin’ some problems with the house – ‘m trying to work it out and get it right for her b’fore I leave again.”

“… somethin’ wrong with the house or somethin’ _in_ the house?” Shane asked knowingly, lowering his voice a little and Rick could then tell he was sitting at his desk at the station.

“Somethang in it,” Rick admitted, looking around the big room that was starting to dim in the late afternoon light. “It – shit, Shane it was hurtin’ her, I couldn’t just let it slide.”

“Fuck no you couldn’t, ya take all the time ya need but – what are ya doing’ about it? Ya don’ know shit ‘bout that voodoo crap…” his voice trailed off on the other end of the line, and Rick couldn’t bring himself to find the words to reply. “You didn’t.”

“I had to,” Rick said quietly, sadly and stumbling to find a way to justify his situation to the man that had to help hold him up when he was nothing but shattered pieces for _years_. “I-It’s fine, really it is. We’re good, righ’now – we’re just strugglin’ finding whatever this thang is tied to in the house. He’s gotta order some shit from New Orleans to help so I’m gonna stay at the Greene’s with my mom and Gan’ma, but Mom should be headin’ home here soon-“

“Rick you can’t even say his name,” Shane growled out. “How can you be okay if ya can’ even-“

“ _Daryl_ is in the next room,” Rick said through gritted teeth. “Pass’d out like a light cause he’s been workin’ himself inta the ground tryin’ ta help us, but on the off chance he ain’t completely asleep I was trying to be _discrete_.” Dragging his hand through his curls roughly, Rick rested his forehead in his hand as he hung his head low between his shoulders – phone still pressed tight to his ear – while he tried to quell the anger brewing in his chest. “Look, I know yer worried. But I’m fine. Better, actually… better than I’ve been in a long while.”

Silence was heavy and loud on the other end of the phone, but Rick knew Shane was there – that he was just concerned and honestly didn’t trust Daryl any further than he could throw him. But Rick did feel better, the last week had done so much for his tattered and scarred heart, and he kept hoping that – if he and Daryl were able to make this friendship between them _work_ , then maybe Rick could finally find a way to move past what they had. “I can tell you mean tha’,” Shane said slowly, his words chosen carefully and Rick did his best to not take offense to that. “Jus’ – just be careful. I know ya wan’ to fix this, Rick, but don’ go lookin’ for somethin’ that ain’t there anymore. You gotta remember it was nev’r there ta begin with, Dixon’s are bad news and if Daryl hurts ya again I swear ta whatever fucking God he prays’ta I’ll-“

“Shane we ain’t eloping, we’re just… learning to be around each other again. And it’s working, we were all friends once.”

“When we were _ten_.”

“That foundation is still there, Shane,” Rick spoke over his partner’s interruption, firm and clear. “I’ll – I’ll be careful, I will. I’m not expectin’ anythang, believe me I’m not. It’s just nice to not be so full of hate for once.” They both knew the amount of rage Rick had kept caged in his chest for years upon years because of Daryl Dixon, so his words hit both men hard enough to ground them. “I’ll be careful,” he promised, ending his sermon.

“Good,” Shane added quietly. “Ya already talk’d ta Lambert?”

“He let me know when my vacation days will run out,” Rick quipped with a smirk.

“Shut it, he was about ta ship ya off ta Siberia ta get rid of those damn vacation hours,” Shane griped, the sound of his chair creaking as he leaned back so far Rick bet he looked ready to topple over.

“Yeah, I have an open leave – looks like yer stuck with Leon Basset for a while.”

“I hate you so much sometim’s.”

“Love ya too, darlin’,” Rick grinned. “Talk to ya later.”

“Yeah, yeah – g’bye,” Shane hung up with a grumble though Rick could still hear the smile on his friend’s face. It kept Rick’s lips quirked until the silence pressed in around him after his phone calls, and the creaking of the house as the wind blew hard against the walls and windows had him looking up towards the entryway to the kitchen. Knowing Daryl was indeed asleep down the hall in one of the sitting rooms, right where he’d left him after he drew markings on the doorframes to keep anything from waking him or poking at him. He had to wonder if Daryl had actually heard any of his conversation with Shane.

Not a minute later found Rick stepping quietly across the hardwood floors towards the front of the house, pausing at the entrance to a room that was probably too green to be considered classy and had Daryl huddled up and snoring lightly where he was sprawled on the faded velvet divan. His shoulders were wedged into the arm of the couch to help pillow his neck and head, and his relaxed face looked so worn and tired that Rick’s heart sank a little in his chest. He really didn’t want to wake the other, but it was getting late and they needed to leave soon before it got dark and something decided that they weren’t allowed to.

With steps as quiet as Rick had ever made towards the redneck, he lowered himself enough to kneel in front of the other and reached carefully to place a hand on his arm. In the past, Daryl would’ve jerked awake – lashed out, skittered back – and not so long ago if he had subconsciously known it was Rick he would’ve leaned into the touch, knowing they’d been tangled up in sheets all night long. So it was making his heart thud against his ribcage in anticipation and worry for what might happen so many years since he’d last been near the Dixon sleeping this soundly. He even had his second hand braced and ready to block any attacks in case the younger man did indeed throw a punch in reflex.

Careful fingers brushed the warm skin of Daryl’s bicep, the other flinching at the light touch until Rick’s whole hand rested against his arm and curled around his shoulder. Between one breath and the next Daryl’s whole body relaxed from a tightly wound spring to this loose and somehow more calm rest that Rick wasn’t sure he had the heart to rouse him from. Daryl’s subconscious reaction wasn’t to reject Rick’s presence, or lean into it, but just accept it – and he wasn’t sure what to do with that. So instead he grasped the other’s shoulder a little tighter and shook him gently, speaking Daryl’s name quietly and lowly in that way that wasn’t a whisper. Just like he had always wanted to, back when he was small and in awe of the wild boy that had saved his life in the forest.

“Daryl,” Rick said again, surprised the first mention of his name in the silence hadn’t woken the hunter with a start, though the second had awareness creasing lines into his face and a soft sound of protest rumbling in the back of his throat. “t’s gettin’ late, we gotta go.” There was something sad and cold clawing at the back of Rick’s own throat, when the thought came to him that maybe this _was_ the first time Daryl had been able to sleep in days – and now that he had woken him the hunter wouldn’t be getting any more for a long while.

Pale blue shone through slivers between dark eyelashes as Daryl squinted at him, before clamping his eyes shut again and his face grimacing as he forced himself to sit up and move away from Rick’s presence. His shoulders and back made distinct cracks and popping sounds as he reached high and stretched them out of the huddle he’d been in for hours, and Rick busied himself with standing up and moving away while not looking at the other’s long expanse of tan muscles and sun freckles dotting the skin on his arms and shoulders.

“You need anything else?” Rick coughed out, ducking his head with his hands on his hips before cutting a glance at Daryl as he made to grab Merle’s bike pack full of books and swinging it over his shoulder looking groggy and adorable and –

Fucking shit, Grimes cut it out!

“From the house, I mean,” he continued as they made their way out of the room and towards the front door where Rick’s bag was miraculously still sitting waiting for its owner to pick it up, and not hanging from a chandelier or something. “Since we aren’t gonna be back here fer a few days.” He stopped to lift the duffle bag and found himself standing far too close to the redneck as they paused in the doorway, and Daryl was giving him a still lightly misty look that showed he was rambling and should probably stop. “Don’ want ya to forget anythang-“

“Wh’tever it is’ll still be here M’nday,” Daryl mumbled, looking about two seconds from rubbing the sleep from his eyes as his body swayed a little towards the warmth of Rick’s own.

“Hopefully,” Rick added unhelpfully, not at all staring intently at the traces of orange and gold soaking into the highlights of Daryl’s short cropped hair, or how the late afternoon light cut shadows across his cheekbones in very enticing ways. “Might be under the floorboards by th’ time we get back.”

“Nah, it’ll b’fine,” Daryl huffed, patting the big doorway with the carvings prominent and more intricate than Rick remembered them being – highlighting the younger man’s handiwork while Rick had been away, and the sheriff’s deputy found himself staring at those instead in admiration. “This ole beast will be jus’ fine, an’ so will the lot o’them inside – they got on without us fer this long, coupl’ nights ain’t gonna do much harm. They’ll throw’a party once we leave.”

“That’s kind of worrying,” Rick found himself laughing, eyes tracing the complicated mix of lines and curves and images that bordered the door frame like artwork, and really it was pleasant to look at. Easy to get lost in; something beautiful and original and comforting all at once. Much like Daryl himself. “ A lot can happen ‘n two days.”

“Ya gonna miss me?” he heard Daryl tease warmly, with a lilt that was mocking and sounded a lot like Merle, but also soft and sweet. A lot like a boy Rick had thought died years ago among some burned hex bags on the ground of the Dixon lot. It wasn’t until his gaze shifted to Daryl’s own – crinkled at the edges and unpracticed in how the crook of his lips managed to finally reach his eyes – that he realized the other hadn’t looked away. Rick often had the feeling of being watched in the Grimes plantation house, a cold sensation that tingled and numbed like ice cubes, but the past few days he had felt something that was distinctly different – that left him feeling warm and encompassed and _safe_. Rick had thought it was just a different spirit, something that wasn’t angry, and he could just feel the differences now that used to be so subtle. But in that moment, standing in the open door with the man he used to know so well, that illusion shattered – it shocked Rick to his core to find that warmth was not a spirit in the house at all, it was when Daryl was watching him.

“In your dreams, Dixon,” Rick tried to grin back, tilted and unsure and shocked because the lightness in Daryl’s eyes was unguarded for the first time since he’d returned to White Oak – and that same glint was still there. The thing that shown so deep and powerful; the indescribable mixture that could’ve been admiration, nostalgia, or something he didn’t dare name. Not even to himself. Because Daryl was soaking in the sight of Rick in the late light as well, and there was no denying that now. Not with how close they were standing. “You know yer tired of looking at my face aft’r bein’ stuck with me all week.” The words tumbled from his lips on autopilot, reverting back to his easy banter he had not moments before on the phone with Shane, and clung to it as his world spun below him. Kept himself from moving just that bit closer, resisting the urge to lean in and press Daryl’s spine against the door frame and kiss the breath out of the younger man – and instead launched himself forward until he was walking down the steps and into the grass. The crunch of the lawn beneath his boots grounding him enough to hear Daryl’s scoff over his pounding heart in his ears and the equally teasing reply.

“Never,” he drawled with a sarcasm that was all Merle once more, and was also laced with a bit of truth beneath the bravado that was so attractive when paired with his loping stride and thrown back shoulders. And Rick’s heart didn’t know how to handle that beyond stopping dead in his chest as his feet propelled him towards his car like his entire world wasn’t crumbling inside his head.

\--

It had taken him a couple of hours mentally replaying a constant loop of that five minutes on his grandparents’ front porch for Rick to wrap his mind around what had happened. He couldn’t have seen what he thought he had seen, it just didn’t make sense. But after he had questioned, second-guessed and inspected every moment down to the millisecond – mostly to keep from exploding in befuddled anger – there was no denying it for what it really was.

Daryl had been fucking _flirting_ with him!

Steam might as well have been pouring out of Rick’s ears with the amount of rage that filled him and stayed brewed in his chest and throat hotly. His mother had certainly noticed when the full realization first struck him hard, shocked him with a fork full of food halfway to his mouth at the Greene’s dinner table hours after he and Daryl had parted. He hadn’t spoken much during the meal, too lost in his head to really take in the surrounding chatter and noise of a large family with small children – but his Mother’s gentle hand guiding his own back to set his fork on his plate had him snapping out of his spell and darting wide-eyes to where she sat beside him.

“Ya feel alright, dear?” she asked low and quiet, eyeing him carefully with hints of worry in her expression. “Barely touched yer food.” He nodded curtly, instead reaching for his water glass and draining half of it in a way that was probably not reassuring, but she dropped the subject none the less. Rick would’ve excused himself but the conversation and loud interruptions of Maggie and sometimes of Hershel helping Beth with her food were a more helpful distraction from Daryl _fucking_ Dixon. Sure he’d been half asleep but _what the hell!?_ If Daryl had meant what he said years ago, about never feeling anything that was real and everything being spawned from a curse made by Moreau, then what had that fucking been?

Dinner passed in a blur, as did clean up – and Rick had even helped with dishes, determinedly not thinking about how he and Daryl had been standing side by side doing the same thing earlier that day – and it wasn’t until he found himself out on the Greene’s porch that evening still stewing at Daryl’s blatant hypocrisy that a thought came to him.

Rick had said to Shane that they all used to be friends once, that the foundation from which it was built on was still there underneath all the bullshit and history and bad memories, and Daryl had said years ago that the curse Moreau had set on them had made them infatuated with each other to the point that Daryl had falsely fallen in love with Rick when he hadn’t ever felt that way – ever.

Except, what if that wasn’t necessarily true? Daryl had always said that the strongest curses were built on something that was already there – and that curse had to be really fucking strong if what the two of them had was all an illusion. So… what if what Daryl had felt started as something that was simply a strong friendship that had the _potential_ to be something more – and that foundation was still there somewhere? Buried deep and disguised even to the redneck himself? An ugly feeling of hope sparked in Rick’s chest at the stray thought, that maybe something could be growing from the friendship the two men were rebuilding between each other, and Rick felt sick at the emotion. Shane’s words repeating in his head like a broken record, remnants echoing from the past few years of the hurt and rage and mournful sadness Rick had felt _daily_ because of Daryl’s words in the Dixon lot when they were eighteen – jagged shards of his broken heart stabbing painfully to the point Rick couldn’t believe they weren’t physically wounding him. There was no way he could live through that again, he wouldn’t recover and come out a whole person a second time. So if for some reason Daryl _was_ starting to feel something, even subconsciously, Rick could never let it get that far. He had to shut that down before the hungry look he had seen in the hunter’s eyes turned to hungry touches, scorching hot and bruising in all the ways Rick had missed so much. No, that was _not_ happening. Not again.

There was even a chance Daryl hadn’t even realized he had been flirting, or maybe hadn’t known he was until hours later much like Rick – it could’ve been the lack of sleep, how much Rick had been projecting, _fuck_ there were so many factors it was impossible to speculate. That didn’t stop Rick from over-thinking the ever loving shit out of the subject, or for a small aggressive part of himself (bred from his competiveness with Shane, probably) that wanted to get even with the other. But that was a madness Rick wasn’t sure he wanted to head towards, or spend too long considering.

No matter how late it kept him up into the night. Which was a damn shame because he had so been looking forward to uninterrupted sleep for the first time in a week.

\--

The Greene farm was an enormous property full of acres of fields for hay, sprawling forests – which included the Greene watering hole, that all the children of White Oak frequented – and grassy hills that housed 50 head of cattle. A collection of other smatterings of animals stayed closer to the large white-paneled farmhouse, and the old weathered barn sheltered their three horses mostly used for getting around and herding the cattle from field to field. The weekend was usually Hershel’s time to relax and stick close to the house, spend time with his family, but his to-do list was long and incomplete with how much he’d been working on some of the neighboring farms as the local veterinarian – and Rick was restless. After the first evening as their guest, Rick decided he couldn’t just sit in one spot and have nothing to do but over-think his non-relationship with Daryl Dixon, so he spoke with Hershel at breakfast the next morning and asked if there was any upkeep he could do around the property to keep his hands busy.

Although reluctant at first, the older man respected his need to be productive and mentioned there were parts in the fencing around the outer edges of the property that needed mending. He had an old Toyota truck that Rick could drive around the borders, spot-checking the fence line as there were probably many places that needed attention, and Rick jumped at the opportunity. It sounded like an all day job, if not an all weekend job (if he dragged his feet) so he loaded up the back of the dusty white truck-bed with new planks of wood and posts to replace the rotten ones and was on his way before anyone could talk him out of it.

With the windows down and the swamp bracketing him in from one side the drive was a pleasant change from the constant noise in his head, fresh and freeing in a way only the Georgian countryside could be – filling his senses until there was nothing but the drive. Bright sun in his eyes as streaks peeked around the broken visor, comforting jostles that had him feeling every bump and dip of the ground beneath the tires as Rick took the vehicle off-road and skimmed the fence-line to check for damage. A crisp breeze in his face laced with the humid rot of the swamp and the sweet hay bales in the fields, with nothing but the roar of the old truck and crunch of dirt and rocks in his ears as he drove to the far edge of the Greene property. There were actually quite a few places that needed mending, but the hours passed quickly as he stopped the truck to inspect places, take an axe and a good few kicks with his boots to knock the fencing loose, and replace the beams with new planks of wood. Rick hadn’t thought about how therapeutic it would be to kick apart the fence and then hammer it back together, misplaced aggression and confused passion seeping from his pores with the sweat that beaded across his skin in the late summer sun, but it certainly helped his mood. Before he knew it, it was already mid-afternoon and Rick couldn’t remember what he had been mad about in the first place. Hell, he couldn’t remember the day of the week without pausing to think about it.

“RICK! HEY RICK!” With curls dripping sweat into his eyes, Rick blocked the sun with his dirt-covered, splinter -ridden glove to see Maggie running across the field with another small-ish child behind her helping part the tall grass. Though the little one stood too far off the ground for it to be Beth. The two girls near tumbled down the hill from the hay field and didn’t stop until Maggie was reaching the truck and jumping up to stand on the back tire and lean over the truck-bed wall and better watch Rick load up his tools. “Yer _still_ fixin’ th’fences!?” Beside her a pale, lightly-freckled girl with watchful blue eyes and straight honey-colored hair jumped to lean over the side of the truck too, inspecting its contents silently and without introduction.

“Gettin’ as much done as I can,” Rick told her, heaving a few scrap pieces of wood into the back next to Hershel’s traditional red toolbox with the paint wearing away to streaks of silver beneath. “Who’s yer friend?” he asked politely, continuing his pacing motion of loading up the truck with both scrap wood and rotten boards alike – no use leaving them out in the field for someone to trip on.

“Th’s Amy, her aunt lives down th’road,” Maggie said absently, watching the other girl lean so far into the truck Rick was afraid she’d topple over into the pile of rotten wood and rusted up nails – so he made a shooing motion at the two of them to get down before he had to actually act like the adult he was. “She’s young’r than me.”

“Not by much,” Amy muttered, her accent distinctly lacking a Southern twang – and as Rick saw her standing with her arms crossed over the rim of the truck bed, he could see she had a lot less dirt and debris on her than Maggie did, who looked like she’d rolled down the hill instead of ran down it moments before.

“Well, nice’ta meet you, Amy,” Rick nodded and flashed a smile at her, helping twitch her lips up at the corners a little and turn her lamp-like, watery blue eyes towards the deputy.

“Nice to meet you,” she parroted, watching him lock up the tailgate and then lean against the truck while downing the last of his water, and Rick couldn’t tell if he was being judged or not. “Are you all done with school, too? My sister is, she moved away last summer, she’s old like you.” He choked on his mouthful of water and spit half of it into the grass, snapping wide blue eyes to the giggling pair that didn’t bother containing their amusement.

“Ya are pretty old,” Maggie pointed out with a cheeky smile.

“I am not,” Rick protested childishly, “I’m 24!”

“Oh wow you are old, Andrea isn’t even that old yet,” Amy snickered as Rick huffed at them and leaned against the truck again, struggling to peel off his rawhide gloves.

“What’re you two doin’ way out here, anyway?” he inquired, raising an eyebrow at the guilty silence that followed his question. “’m guessin’ you aren’t suppos’d to be wandering around on yer own like this so far from the house, huh?”

“We ain’t gonna do nuthin’ dangerous, jus’ goin’ for a walk,” Maggie insisted, in such a surprisingly convincing way that Rick would’ve believed her. If he hadn’t used the exact same tone with his mother countless times when he was small and wanting to get lost in the swamp with Daryl.

He darted his eyes between the two girls’ faces, waiting for a break in their resolve, and Amy looked the closest to cracking – but he finally heaved a sigh and decided he couldn’t really deny them the childhood adventures he remembered so well from his summers growing up in White Oak. “Y’know how ta handle them woods, Mags?” The eleven-year-old nodded her head of messy brown hair enthusiastically, and Rick kept his expression schooled for another moment before nodding to himself as well. Was about to motion and dismiss them to disappear beyond the treeline until something came darting out of the very place he had been about to gesture to.

Small, thin, and a little twitchy – a boy with a red and white baseball cap and short cut black hair spun around until he spotted Maggie still standing on the backtire of the truck and he raced for them. “Maggie! You gotta hurry and come see this run-down old house, it’s all burned up and _falling apart_ and it might collapse any-“ he stopped like he’d run into a wall as he rounded the truck and saw Rick standing there, eyes going wide and frantic. “Uh…”

“ _Glenn_ ,” Maggie hissed angrily, hiding her face in her hands and dragging them down dramatically.

Rick pointed at the boy, stopping him in his tracks – because he had looked ready to bolt – and tried to place him in the grapevine of gossip his grandmother had showered him with. “Mr. and Mrs. Rhee’s… grandson?” The boy nodded nervously, and Rick just shifted his weight to regard the trio of kids that reminded him too much of himself with Daryl and Shane that first summer they all met – all the trouble they used to get up to in the woods, wandering far and wide and into places they probably shouldn’t have, but living through those days were what made them the best. Unfortunately, that also reminded him how many times they almost got seriously hurt or died, and none of the three kids standing in front of him where as resourceful as Daryl or as brave and reckless as Shane. Well – maybe Maggie, on both fronts, but he didn’t feel good about letting them head to a burned down house to try and walk across floorboards that were mostly dust and ash. At least he’d hear the screams being out here working on the fences – nope, not happening.

“Where are y’all headin’, what house?” He turned on his best cop voice, making each kid shrink further into themselves, and the realization that _holy crap I am that old_ smacked Rick upside the head. Who said he had to be an adult today? He had come out to the edges of the farm to break wooden beams and hammer nails unnecessarily hard and forget about Daryl _fucking_ Dixon, not be a responsible authority figure.

Maggie said “Nowhere!” too quickly and at the same time that Glenn guiltily spit out –

“This old place we found on the Southside, isn’t much but a pile of wood and the fire place but one wall is still standin’-“

“Glenn _shut up_ ,” Maggie hissed again, jumping down from the truck and rounding on him, the boy shrinking back further and not seeming to know where to look. His honesty shined like a damn beacon, and Rick knew he wouldn’t be able to lie if his life depended on it, so of course he barreled on.

“Nah, it’s alright – I seen ev’ry broken down house this side’a Lakewood, but I ain’t seen that one,” he told them off-handedly, fiddling with the gloves in his hands before shifting to stuff them in his back pocket as a thought came to him. “Tell ya what, I won’t tell yer parents what you’ve been up to out here _if_ – ya take me to this house.” The three looked at each other, as if they could communicate telepathically, and then with a nod from Amy and Maggie, Glenn looked back at Rick nervously.

“You promise? My _Halmi_ would be so mad, and she’s scarier than you’d think when she’s mad.”

Rick couldn’t imagine old Mrs. Rhee mad at anyone, so he took the small boy’s word for it. “Cross my heart, hope to die,” Rick told with a smile, tracing an X over his chest, and watching the acceptance on each of their faces in amusement.

“Alright,” Glenn agreed with only a light hint of reluctance, “follow me.”

\--

The last time Rick had set foot in the swamp, he had been fleeing the Dixon lot at 18 years old with his heart shattered into irreparable pieces. A fact he had forgotten 6 years later, when he told the trio of kids not even in their teens that he would follow them into the woods towards a destination unknown. He hadn’t expected it to be so earth-shattering.

That bubble that was created in the swamp, of heat and humidity and the symphony of sounds – all caged in within the walls of trees and ceiling of entangled branches and vines – was like walking into another world. One untouched by society, any man-made objects such as fences or houses or bridges all reclaimed by the swamp and melded into the ground and foliage. This side of the Greene farm there were no trails, which was how Rick used to explore the forests, navigating only by moss on the sides of trees and the faint streams of sunlight that made it through the woven tapestry above them. But it had been a long time since he’d last tried to pick his way through the swamp, his senses were now overwhelmed and his limbs out of practice in how he used to glide between the trees. This wasn’t his corner of the swamp, so his hope that it would be just like riding a bike flew out the window about 20 yards into the woods.

Following people that were half his size probably didn’t help matters, as they could fit through smaller spaces than himself, so Rick got a lot of branches and webs and Spanish moss in his face – ducking more often than not as they wove their way through the forest. He had already been soaked in sweat from working on the fences, so the dampness clinging to his skin didn’t bother him as much as it could have. In fact it was almost welcomed, like the swamp was seeping back into him through his skin, the ground sticking to his boots and making each step heavy with mud in the most nostalgic of ways, clinging to him and not wanting to let go.

Much like a lot of other things in White Oak.

Glenn finally lead them to a clearing that stretched on further into the swamp; too covered in foliage to be a trail, but too wide to not be on purpose. It was startling to look at, exiting the treeline to find a wide avenue of ferns and bushes and tree roots sprawling to cover it – hide it from the world – but the tall yellowwoods and Old Live Oaks that bordered it thickly with large trunks and long reaching arms made an ethereal cavern that they began to walk down. Even the ground felt different, as it twisted and turned unnaturally, until it gathered at a point ahead of them. The kids reached it first, light footfalls echoing on the planks of sturdy, ancient wood beams, revealing a bridge beneath the dense brush trickling along the creek bed; long since dried up as Rick walked over it and stared at the haunting cracks and divots painting water lines into the dirt below. And when the openness returned Rick realized with a start that what they had been walking on was what used to be a road, abandoned by man and taken in by nature. The swamp taking it back with a vengeance that shielded it from others, and left it unrecognizable as a man-made thing. Rick also absently wondered where the road led to in the other direction. Had the swamp also blocked its entrance, even more thoroughly than it blanketed the road, so as to divert others from coming and reclaiming it once more?

There were only a few more bends in the road, and Rick found himself craning his neck to try and see around each one, a new found sense of anticipation making him feel eager and impatient – and he wasn’t the only one. Maggie was antsy, trying to catch up to Glenn and looking like she was a split-second decision from just running past him, distracting herself with dragging sticks through the foliage leaves and branches; weaving back and forth and making it difficult for Amy to follow her directly. The smaller girl stuck to her side like glue, and Rick wondered if it had anything to do with that older sister she had mentioned earlier – Maggie certainly was a good big sister to Beth, despite the age difference, and it wouldn’t take long for a smart girl like Amy to see that similarity too. Her heart searching for a replacement, even if she didn’t mean it that way.

It was as Rick was getting lost in that thought, vaguely touching on how he was kind of glad he was an only child – he got to choose his brother, and he wouldn’t give Shane up for anything – but every thought that could’ve spiraled from there left him in an instant. The group made the last turn to where the cavern of trees ended just past a second bridge, the road starting to appear more and more beneath the greenery covering it, and leading up to the blackened remains of what used to be a small house. The darkness smeared across the bright green surrounding like an ink stain, bits of grey and ash covered in specklings of green moss starting to coat areas of the structure that had indeed collapsed in on itself after years of humidity and rain. It was really a feat that it hadn’t melted into the ground below it, and that in itself sent a cold shiver trickling down his spine, reverberating against each bone so Rick could feel them painfully though his feet kept moving him forward.

“Wow,” Maggie breathed quietly, the three kids almost forgotten by Rick until he saw them starting to pick their way through the wreckage, and a sense of _wrongness_ stuck to the back of his throat sickly as he worried and kept a close eye on them. But also began circling the wreckage himself, astounded that it was still intact and wondering how long ago the house had burned down for it to still look like this. But there were trees and brush growing in patches where seeds managed to find Earth, in the center of what used to be rooms, by the way the planks of cracked and blackened wood had fallen. It had to have been a long time ago, long enough to grow fern bushes at least, the entire thing a juxtaposition that left Rick worried and astonished at the same time. Something bad had happened here, stained the earth and everything around it, enough for the swamp to try and conceal it while it healed the land – the sun didn’t even shine as brightly where the house stood. Leaves and vines woven more tightly to cover everything in shadow, only made light by it being mid-afternoon.

Glenn was careful as he moved through the remains of the house, thankfully void of a basement it looked like, and all one story so there would be no falling through floorboards – he was smart about his movements, and Rick admired that. Maggie was more reckless, more brave, but held herself back with Amy clinging tightly to the back of her shirt and literally following her footsteps. The older girl reached back and grabbed her hand to help lead her, and Rick relaxed minutely at the sight of the kids chatting quietly and exploring without making the dangerous decisions he had known some of the young ones made around these parts. It let him go back to inspecting the structure, because there was something off about the whole place, and he had been to too many fire-based crime scenes in Kentucky to not recognize the signs. Everything was so odd it was hard to tell if it was an accident or arson, but the cop in Rick couldn’t help but want to try and find out – even years beyond when any evidence would be left.

The room at the back was covered in the most moss and greenery, which should have indicated it was the furthest from the explosion – but the destruction of the house around it made it appear as if the whole world had _melted_ starting at that point. Being as careful as he could, Rick picked his way through the debris to the pile of ash and wood and burnt cloth at its epicenter – gently lifting up a board that still looked a little intact to see the destruction beneath the pile that looked like the source. There were bits of burnt metal, streaked black and looking like pipes and hinges, and Rick could only fathom to guess what it might have been – part of the bathroom, a metal bed frame, could’ve even been part of the plumbing if they had it this far out in the middle of nowhere. He would’ve looked further, but a rustle of brush and a twig snapping had his eyes darting up to the woods to his right, and there was something there just beyond the long trails of Spanish moss and curtains of leaves bracketing the remains of the house. He carefully lowered the plank, and straightened up to get a better look through the trees, absently brushing the ash off his hands as he did.

His heart dropped to his stomach when he finally recognized what it was.

There was a platform through the branches, just around a small bend in the trees, bleached white wood shining in the only sun in that clearing, and the faint chimes of glass on glass sent pains of panic through his heart – his brain taking a little longer to catch up.

He barely had time to open his mouth to call to the kids behind him when a gust of wind picked up, rushing through the trees and making them come alive around them, sweeping down to blow against him directly – ruffling through his curls in a way that was comforting and welcome, but so like the Dixon lot it solidified his worries. Something bad may have happened here, something that had to do with the magik things in the woods, and he’d have to ask Daryl about it before coming to any conclusions that were bouncing around his head and heart like a pin-ball machine in his chest. But he should probably lead the kids away, even though all danger had left the property, and now the swamp was just doing its best to cure whatever tragedies were seeped into the ground.

Looking back he saw all three of the kids huddled close, looking up and around at the rushing wind that didn’t want to stop, and Maggie finally looked at Rick questioningly. The deputy smiled softly, nodding in a calm and knowing way, “we should head back.” All three were staring at him now, and he wasn’t sure what they saw, but knowing now what the property held had taken a weight off his shoulders; if nothing else Rick would always have trust in the swamps of White Oak. He was comforted enough to go on his way and leave them to do what they did best – heal.

“C’mon,” he said to the scared kids that skittered out of the remains as careful and quickly as they could, each at his side and letting Rick lead them this time away from the blackened spot in the middle of the forest. He motioned for them to cross the bridge first, Glenn more than happy to run across the planks and to the other side of the forest covered in streaks of sunshine, Amy right behind followed slower by Maggie. Rick couldn’t help looking back at the house once more, keeping every detail in his memory though he wasn’t sure he’d ever return there, something just stayed tightly in his gut and he couldn’t shake it. He’d never been there before, but there was something so painfully familiar and sad about the sight of the broken and splintered black walls, the caved in roof and scattered shingles, the stone foundation half melted from the heat. It took Maggie calling his name for Rick to turn from the sight and make to cross the bridge too.

On the other side, his foot stepped on a weak spot on the final plank and his boot went straight through the bridge to scrape against the ancient creek bed – Amy screamed at the sight and Maggie rushed forward to him to help him from falling further. “I’m okay!” he called, calming the frightened kids, who probably thought something had reached out and grabbed him. He had worried that himself for a moment too, and had gotten past it until he caught a glimpse of something in the creek bed while trying to free his boot from the hole in the bridge.

Fallen to the bottom, rusted from rain and broken hinges, was the side planking of what looked like a mailbox - a distinct boot print on the side like someone had kicked it off its post and chucked it in the creek. Erasing the existence of the house even from the country roads far down the winding drive. Rick’s heart beat so hard and fast in his chest he wasn’t sure how it hadn’t stopped dead in shock, though he knew for a good long moment he couldn’t even breathe.

Faded and rusted like the rest of the metal panel, where five large black letters melded to the side of the mailbox, bold and unmistakable. Enough to steal Rick’s breath away and shock him into stillness.

Because the name they spelled was DIXON.

 


	7. Tattoos On This Town

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, welcome back if you are still hanging around waiting for me to post the next long awaited chapter. Writer's block has been a menace of mine the past month, I've been "almost done" with this chapter for near 2 weeks now - and in an amazing feat of teamwork and badass-ery both myself and my heaven-sent beta The_Royal_Gourd have not only finished this chapter but edited it in record time! Heavy editing has also given me a head start on the next chapter, so I'm going to get my butt back to work as soon as I am done posting this and watching tonight's new episode. I've held it hostage until we finished this chapter.
> 
> Thank you for your endless patience and devotion, honestly it is you - my readers - who have kept this epic story going for as long as it has been. A thousand apologies for taking so long, it's been a hectic few months with the cruise (Norman was ADORABLE, annnnndddd I got his autograph tattooed on my collarbone and it looks badass. He was super cool about it, but I also brought him things so that might've helped.) I also quit my job and moved to Georgia with my husband so it's been a difficult adjustment, but I'm doing much better and hope to keep myself busy and focused in the months to come. All of your kind words and comments and kudos honestly mean the world to me - so thank you, every single one of you. You keep me motivated :)
> 
> No real warnings this chapter, some more character introductions and Rick and Daryl being their normal dumb-selves. The_Royal_Gourd is a treasure and helped me whip this into shape, so thank you dear <3 anything else typo-wise is my fault, I hope you all enjoy.

\--

\--

It took every bit of Rick’s resolve to stop himself from going straight to the Dixon lot after seeing the kids back to the Greene farm safely. With willpower made of steel and stone he was able to do so, but it became harder and harder to hold on to with each passing hour the rest of the night. There was no saying what a Saturday night looked like for the Dixon family and the lifestyle they kept wrapped around them, not what he knew of it from years past or whatever it might have warped into while Rick was away, but he had a strong feeling that they weren’t even home. The lot was never the main place for their meetings, so even if Rick caved and headed their way it would be for nothing. So he stayed put. No matter how much it was killing him not knowing the answers to the endless deluge of questions storming inside his head. 

A sick feeling of dread stayed heavy and cold in his stomach as he spent the majority of the night on the Greene’s porch nursing bottle after bottle of beer, the “what if”s and “maybe”s more horrifying than the next as thoughts came to him in rapid succession until wild and outstretched theories were all that bounced around his brain. Some that could be dangerous, life-altering, and ultimately devastating to the man he used to love more than anything in the world; so Rick did his best to dismiss those thoughts as they came to him. Ones that echoed words like “ **_arson”, “domestic violence_ ** **”,** and “ **_DOA_ ** ” in the same crackling tone of his CV radio in his patrol car back in Kentucky. As well as the quiet mumblings of a ten-year-old boy in his room as he stitched his own arm back together,  _ “My momma burn’d our house down.” _

**_“We need County Sheriffs at 624 Westminster Road, medical personnel already en route, fire department on site.”_ **

_ “-fell asleep ‘n bed, wit’a cig still lit ‘n her hand.” _

**_“One victim, DOA, investigative team on their way. Local police on site awaiting fire department clearance-“_ **

_ “The whol’ house wen’ up, I didn’ know ‘til the kids ‘roun’ here start’d chasin’ the fire trucks.” _

Rick switched to whiskey and drank until the voices in his head stopped, hunched low in a rocking chair with his head in one hand and a well-used tumbler glass in the other, staring off across the fields having no way of knowing if he was staring in the direction of the burned out shell of a house buried deep in the woods. But his gut told him he was, just as it held on to the words he had written time and time again in county case records in investigations he’d headed –  _ foul play suspected. _

The drinking helped keep him rooted to the spot; kept him from driving to the Dixon lot and just waiting on their run down front porch until Daryl returned from wherever he disappeared to at night – because there was no way he could let this go. Not without knowing the truth. Rick and Daryl were keeping secrets from each other, sure, but this was not a secret that should stay buried if that was indeed what it was. Rick owed Daryl much more than that. 

He woke with the sun shining on his face, still hunched over in the chair on the porch, with a headache thumping through his temples and a roiling in his stomach. He blamed it on the whiskey, and shook it off stubbornly - he had a long morning ahead of him and nothing as small as a hangover was going to stop him. With a struggle to his feet, Rick made to put one foot in front of the other until he was inside the dim shadows of the Greene farm house, heading for the guest bathroom down the hall where a shower and a fresh set of clothes would rouse him from his dream-addled stupor that filled his head like cotton. Echoes that clung to his thoughts stubbornly, and helped keep him on track for where the day was about to take him. He was getting so damn tired of the secrets, and trying to wrap his head around the enigma that was the life and past of Daryl Dixon. 

If Rick had any say, that was going to end today.

\--

The sun had just fully risen when Rick pulled down into the Dixon lot off the old backroad, some Tylenol and a couple slices of bacon fresh from the pan as he ran out the door enough to quell the pain behind his eyes, so by the time he parked at the bottom of the drive he was halfway back to being human. The shock at being the only vehicle spare the old Toyota on cinder blocks jolted him almost the rest of the way there, stepping out of his own car into the lot to be met with the cool crisp morning breeze ruffling through the loose parts of his clothes and curls. The sun shined for him through the rustling leaves that somehow didn’t look as green as they used to. In fact – most of the lot didn’t look as bright or vibrant as he remembered it being. Sure it was mostly rusted red and dust and gravel, but the plant life that held up a good portion of the old tin house looked sickly and dark, and the trees more brown and dying than alive like the breeze tried to make them. It didn’t even sound the same. 

A quick walk around the house showed that no one was home, Rick even pressed a hand to the window he had climbed through countless times as a teenager and saw an empty mattress on the floor of Daryl’s room. His trek led him back to his car and he turned a few times to look around the empty lot in the early morning, craning to listen for birds or bugs or anything that might have sounded alive – but there was nothing. 

Then a quiet chime filled the air like a soft plea for attention, and Rick’s gaze was drawn to the raised platform at the back of the lot, still bleach white but appearing more frail than his memory served him. Without even thinking, his feet starting moving down towards the quiet platform, the echoing clunk of his boots against the steps and planks of wood were the only comforting sound in his ears. The altar was still full of everything Rick remembered, snakeskins and precious stones, jars of dirt and dried plants, but it all appeared a bleached color much like the platform itself. Some of the objects Rick always remembered as being fresh and bringing just the right spots of color to the display of life and death now faded into the same monochromatic shade of sadness and abandonment. It was haunting to see, made his heart beat heavy and foreboding in his chest, and Rick realized with a forced breath of air between parted lips that the sight scared him to death.

Was Daryl  _ ignoring _ the altar? It looked like no one had been up there in weeks.

His boots came to toe at what used to be the line of goofer dust, and Rick’s heart couldn’t take the sad shape of the altar one more second. He quickly unbuttoned his over shirt, crisp and blue plaid but nice enough he thought he could get away with slipping into church later with it – but this was more important. He used it to clean off some of the dust, first on the chimes and bones hanging from the top of the altar so they chimed with a less dull sound, and then on different objects that also hung with them. Dust sprinkled down to cling to his clean white T-shirt and worn blue jeans, coating the top of his boots until they too matched the platform – but Rick couldn’t find it in himself to care. He got through a majority of the jars and table of the platform without disturbing the writings too much, and finally picked up a jar that when cleaned off revealed more goofer dust, so Rick pried open the rusted top and turned to complete the line that encircled the altar just as the sound of loud rumbling engines began to carry on the wind. He finished his circle and placed it back where it went before, wiping his now grey shirt on more surfaces absently as Merle pulled his truck down the steep drive into the lot. Daryl close behind on the bike. With a quick swerve around the other vehicles and a shot to the very edge of the lot the youngest Dixon parked the motorcycle and barreled straight towards Rick without preamble. Much like when they first met years ago, when he and Shane had been poking around for Old Man Dixon’s distiller and stumbled upon the ancient altar.

“What’re’ya doin’!?” Daryl asked, a light hint of panic in his voice and a manic franticness in his eyes as he took the steps two at a time as he rounded the platform. Rick turned to face him just as Daryl stopped dead at the sight of the platform shining and looking a little more alive after Rick’s ministrations.

“Jus’ cleaning it up a little bit,” Rick told him evenly, full of accusation without putting it into words, and busied himself with shaking the dust and grime from his shirt and snapping the fabric into the air roughly. “Looked like it needed it.” His pointed glance made shame spark in those frantic pale blue eyes, but Daryl schooled both emotions quickly when Rick’s anger slipped at the other’s nervousness.

“No, I mean what’re’ya doin’  _ here _ ? Ever’thin’ okay?” The other’s jittery movements didn’t just come from nervousness, and once again Rick couldn’t help noticing every single thing about Daryl fucking Dixon. His clothes were rough-worn and sticking to him, like he’d been sweating through them all night long, and as the two came closer together in cautious movements Rick could make out remnants of paint and mud on his face and neck – trickling all the way down to his chest in dripping trails from sweat. Highlighting his collarbones as they moved with his breath. Daryl looked exhausted, sated and practically debauched with his messed up short hair and light redness to his face, and Rick couldn’t help the sparks of arousal and  _ jealousy _ at the sight. What had he been doing all night? Rick knew what it  _ looked _ like he’d been doing, and it didn’t just have anything to do with the ritual proceedings painted across his skin, but it made possessive anger growl hungrily in his chest that he had no right to feel. If he’d been in a bad mood before those thoughts certainly made it worse. 

“Nah, I’m fine. But I need ta talk to you.” He tried to cage the irritation simmering just beneath his skin, thinking back to the run down house charred black and all the theories he’d been pondering the night before. Hoping that it would help redirect his rage to something he could use later, he still had a few parts of the Greene property fences he needed to fix, and the old parts were going to look like woodchips when he was done taking his anger out on them. 

“Somethin’ that couldn’ wait ‘til tomorrow?” Daryl snapped quietly, and Rick couldn’t tell if he was tired, scared shitless, or actually annoyed – but the hunter’s words turned off his ability to care like flipping a switch. Daryl was very obviously nervous, and with each careful step forward that Rick took the other looked like was physically fighting backing away in tandem – and Rick had to wonder if this had to do with his slip up the other day. If Daryl had actually meant to flirt with him, or if it was an accident but he wasn’t sure he was sorry for it; either way he had his feet planted firmly and his body language on the defensive. Maybe he didn’t even know what he wanted, and that just pissed Rick off more, but before he could open his mouth to steer them in the right direction the shine of gun metal reflected across the yard. 

Over Daryl’s shoulder Rick could make out the twins, looking just as alike as they had years ago, carrying  _ armfuls  _ of what looked like automatic weapons, a couple duffle bags that Rick could only hazard a guess at the contents, and the same moonshine crates Rick was used to seeing but they were completely empty. His words died on his tongue, and the urgency in Daryl’s expression bled through his angry squint as he stepped into Rick’s line of sight before he could see more. “Don’-“

“Daryl, what’s goin’ on?” Rick demanded, trying to keep his voice low though the words were screamed inside his own head.

“Ya really shouldn’t be here,” Daryl told him gravely, a warning Rick had heard time and time again but there was a danger and fear hidden beneath his words when he spoke them now. It was concrete in a way Rick was familiar with, leaving the realm of Voodou behind in the wake of something criminal and permanent, and that was more terrifying to the deputy than anything.

“What have you been doing?” he hissed as he stepped even closer, so much his breath fanned across Daryl’s lips, but the anger and fear both men radiated clashed and sparked like lightning. What the hell had Daryl gotten into? What had his Old Man done this time? Rick could see from his vantage point now on the raised platform that the swamp itself appeared to be pulling away from the Dixon house, anything clinging to life crawling as fast as its roots would allow it across the slowly decaying ground like the house itself was poison. “Where is yer Old Man?”

“Still pass’d ou’ drunk in Mayfield ‘f we’re lucky,” Daryl grumbled, shifting back a little in a careful sway of his body that curved itself away from Rick’s presence. But Rick’s anger wouldn’t let it, boiling over from the simmer it had been contained at, throwing his shirt to the ground in his rage.

“ _ Mayfield!  _ What the fuck were ya doin’ in  _ Mayfield _ ?” No one went to Mayfield unless they wanted to get shot, or score hardcore drugs not available anywhere else in the county, and the gang activity alone was enough to send shock and panic straight through Rick’s chest. No, no, no – they couldn’t get into that, they had just gotten done with Moreau and his twisted Voodou practices there was no way Old Man Dixon would get into business with something even  _ worse _ . His sons wouldn’t let him,  _ Daryl _ wouldn’t let him, not the Daryl Rick knew. “Daryl, you can’t-“

“What did’ya want, Rick?” Daryl snapped again, his patience was wearing thin, Rick could see Daryl was about to explode just as much as he was. “I don’ got time fer a lectur’ today, we got the shit fer your house las’ night so wha’th’ fuck was so damn impor’ant it couldn’ wait?” Rick’s unblinking eyes stared hard into Daryl’s own, blue clashing with blue, and he knew his fear and alarm and disappointment in the other shone like a damn beacon but once again he didn’t care one bit. If Daryl wasn’t going to let him get a word in edgewise then he hoped he could make some kind of impression that would last long after he left – and if he had to use guilt to do it then he would. 

Although, the longer they stood staring and standing so close - the more that anger sparked something more archaic inside Rick, and a wicked thought crossed his mind as he watched Daryl try to keep his own resolve together. If he needed to make an impression, he  _ did  _ have options; there was more than one way to skin a cat, and Daryl had already opened that door.

“Nothang,” Rick told him curtly. “Nothang that can’t  _ wait _ , sorry ta interrupt your busy schedule.” He clipped heatedly while parroting the hunter’s earlier words, stubborn resentment holding him steadfast in his decision as he allowed himself to let his gaze trace every sharp curve and angle of Daryl’s face in languid movements that had the redneck swallowing hard. It was odd how well rage and arousal paired so well in his veins, but he liked the burning sensation a little too much to let it go. He stepped a bit closer, feeling the heat coming off Daryl’s stressed and exhausted body from whatever the fuck he had been doing the night before, and brought his hand up in clear view of the other so he wouldn’t flinch too far back. And though the hunter obviously contemplated leaning back, visibly warring with himself about stepping out of Rick’s space, Daryl held his ground and refused to move an inch until just before Rick’s hand came up to the side of his face. “Don’t,” Rick rumbled low in the face of Daryl’s hesitation. The promise for violence that flashed in his eyes; the other ready for a fight Rick wasn’t going to give him, because that had never been who they were. They weren’t going to start now. Despite how much Rick’s blood sang for the same fight. “Jus’ let me…”

Daryl’s skin was just as smooth and warm as Rick remembered, and he let his thumb drag heavily across the high curve of Daryl’s cheekbone and down the side of his face – smearing the chipped paint remnants that still clung to his skin as they blended with the sheen glistening there. Beads of sweat continuing to trail down his face from beneath the short strands of hair covering his ears. Daryl’s lips had parted in a shaky breath at the motion, frozen to the spot and blue eyes blazing, and Rick could feel his pulse beat hard and fast beneath his fingertips – matching his own still thundering through his veins. The energy and heat between them roiled and echoed of the fight Rick was determined to hold back, that promised blood and pain, a rough tumble in the grass that led to bruises, and a completion Rick hadn’t felt in a long time. And as much as he wanted to grab the other by the side of his neck and either crash their lips together or just hold Daryl still long enough to sock him in the stomach – that wasn’t what this was about. He leaned in just a hitch, muttered quietly “You can’t keep secrets from me when it’s smeared all over your  _ face _ ,” and then leaned back to give him one last aggressive look full of promise and rage and something so violently carnal it was border-line obscene. Their conversation wasn’t done, and Rick was  _ not happy  _ with him; he wanted the redneck to hold on to that long after they parted. Daryl’s slack-jawed expression as Rick fully pulled away and picked up his shirt off the ground was worth every second of silence that followed – cementing that he had left his impact. Even if Daryl was still just as angry, it didn’t matter to Rick. Something prideful rumbled pleasantly in his chest as he brushed past the other’s motionless form, happy to have finally won. For once. 

“See you tomorrow, Dixon.”

\--

When Rick pulled up to the Grimes plantation house the next morning, Daryl was already there waiting for him. Leaning against Merle’s bike looking like a page out of a magazine, nothing short of perfection in the golden sun and soft breeze, with his head tipped down and his shoulders a little hunched defensively, expression carefully void and pale blue eyes watching Rick’s every move as he climbed out of his car. It was a frustratingly endearing sight that had Rick’s heart swelling in his chest past the residual annoyance and anger. To be fair, Rick didn’t blame him one bit for being cautious after how he left things the day before; he had spent the entire day half regretting every minute of it, and half still a little proud of himself that he finally got the upper-hand on whatever it was going on between them. But by the time he woke up that morning, he knew he had pushed their still tender beginnings of friendship a little too far, and if he had any hope of not causing them to tumble into insanity then he needed to fix it. Unfortunately, the only way he how knew to do that was the way most guys fixed things - by generally ignoring them like they never happened and hoping for the best. Rick knew Daryl better than anyone; he knew for a fact that the last thing the redneck would want to do was  _ talk _ about what happened, hell he might have even considered not showing. But his deep-rooted loyalty and integrity were what had brought him there, scuffing his shoes against the ground and not hiding inside the dark interior of the Dixon house, and Rick respected that. So the least he could do was make it easy on the younger man, no matter how much Rick was still annoyed at him.

He walked up to the other unhurriedly. His leisurely steps giving the redneck time to adjust to the amount of space disappearing between them, until he stopped far enough back that he wasn’t in Daryl’s space – but close enough the man couldn’t hide from Rick either. It took the hunter a moment to look up and lock eyes with him, and Rick raised an eyebrow at the other’s quietness to try and break the tension. “G’morning,” he said into the early Georgia sunshine, waiting for something in return but he barely got a nod in the most minute motions, so Rick just sighed and started towards the house. “Coffee? I trust ya actually got some sleep over th’ weekend.”

“Told’ja I sleep f’ne,” Daryl groused from behind him, a couple steps behind Rick’s left shoulder but still following him up onto the porch. He kept a good arms-length of distance between them when Rick unlocked the door, and repeated his usual ritual of testing the entryway before passing through unharmed. The filtered sunshine through the high windows highlighted everything in hues of yellow and orange, making the whole foyer appear warm and welcoming – and it loosened the tension in Rick’s spine and shoulders, relaxed the tightness in his jaw and face so he could’ve smiled if he wanted to. No matter how many bad things happened in the rooms of the old plantation house, it still felt more like home than any place on Earth – Rick could only think of one place better, and it was somewhere he knew he’d never end up again, so he pushed it from his thoughts and instead surveyed the room. There was no damage anywhere, nothing out of the ordinary that he could see anyway, and when he cast a glance at Daryl he found the redneck watching him inspect the house. “Told’ja nuthin’ would happ’n, neither.” 

“Least the walls are still up,” Rick agreed, then nodded towards the kitchen and led the way down the narrow halls. Nothing seemed out of place as they navigated past the usual rooms, until they came up to his grandparent’s double French Doors with the white chalk writings all over them – or what used to be white writings all over them. Rick didn’t slow his pace, studying the display out of his peripheral only as he and Daryl passed without giving the spirits the satisfaction of having them stop and gawk at the doors hanging on battered and stripped hinges. The careful white marks smudged and scratched away in a chaotic frenzy that illustrated the tales of rage and vehemence they had missed during the long weekend. The darkness that lay inside the room was daunting, once again the curtains had been drawn across the sliding glass doors so tightly not a speck of light could be seen within – and Rick had no desire to stay and inspect it further, they were not equipped to enter the room nor fight whatever might be lying in wait inside of it. Instead they continued to the bright kitchen, thankfully still in one piece and spotless, just as they had left it days prior after cleaning it thoroughly. But Rick had a suspicion that whatever Daryl was bringing was going to make it just as big a mess as before.

Having never really gotten an answer about coffee, Rick went about starting a fresh pot as Daryl went to his usual spot at the kitchen island to set his bag down and begin unloading his newest supplies. While filling the pot with water at the sink, Rick watched in curiosity as Daryl took out an array of protective gear from Merle’s saddle bag: heavy-weight rubber gloves that went far past the wrist and most of the forearms, a couple bandanas, a surgical mask, protective goggles that looked like they’d been stolen from a lumber yard or chemical plant, and a box that most  _ definitely  _ was stolen since it said ‘St. Michael Medical Center’ on the side and was very obviously a first aid kit from an ambulance. Rick had seen enough of them the past few years. He wanted to ask, it was on the tip of his tongue and threatening to spill out, but just as Daryl laid everything out he reached back into the bag and took out a box that was sealed tight in saran wrap and duct tape. 

“…those the bluestones?” Rick asked cautiously, uselessly hoping that it wasn’t.

“Yep,” Daryl muttered, setting the box down carefully and looking at everything before turning his gaze up to Rick who still stood there frozen with a pot of cold water and no coffee. “Ya still got sum buckets out by th’ toolsh’d?” Rick nodded, face schooled into a blank yet serious expression he usually saved for work – but it didn’t seem to bother Daryl as he turned heel and made his way through the mud room to fetch said buckets. Rick continued to eye the outrageously wrapped box, turning from it slowly to continue his task like the box might explode while he wasn’t watching it. He really wished he knew what bluestones were, because they looked like they were made of toxic waste.

“Don’ be makin’ too much,” Daryl informed him as he came back with two giant buckets in each hand, at least 4 gallons a piece. “Can’t be drinkin’ anythin’ once I get start’d.” Rick was afraid of that, and poured half the water down the sink and finished setting up the coffee pot – but it wasn’t until the machine started sputtering out its brew that Daryl’s words hit him.

He managed to turn and set his blazing blue eyes on Daryl as the man filled one of the buckets with water, and the intensity of his stare must have been palpable because Daryl looked up and immediately halted his movements. “What do you mean ‘when  _ you _ get started’?” He let the silence pulse for two beats before barreling on in the face of Daryl’s guarded expression. “I’m not  _ leaving _ . Ya ain’t doing this alone, especially with somethang that looks like it could burn through the floorboards.”

“Sure as shit hop’e not, that’s what I’gotta scrub these on,” Daryl grumbled, casting a glance at the box as well and not at all fazed as Rick bristled under his blatant disregard for the other’s irritation. 

“You are  _ not _ scrubbing the floors with somethang that requires a  _ surgical mask _ and  _ rubber gloves  _ that go up to yer damn elbows!” 

“‘m mixin’ it ‘n wat’r, it’ll be diluted an’ shit,” Daryl said in his defense, face making that cute little incredulous scrunch that narrowed his eyes further and always got a rise out of Rick - acting like he was the one being unreasonable. “I know wha’ ‘m doin’.”

“Oh, did ya get a chemical science degree while I was away too? That shit looks toxic, Daryl!”

“Half’a wha’ our shine’s made of ‘s toxic, an’ it ain’t rocket science Rick. People been usin’ bluestones for hundreds’a years, it’s heavy-duty shit but it’ll do th’ trick. ‘m not gonna burn yer Gan’ma’s house down, promise.”

_ Trust me _ . 

There had been a time that Rick would’ve trusted Daryl with his life, had time and time again put everything in the redneck’s hands - with such blind faith it could only be described as naive. To believe that much in one person. But Daryl had once been Rick’s moral compass to the world, everything the other boy had done was so grounded and real and simple, pure in it’s intent and unbiased in appearance. That was how Rick had remembered it, although he knew it to be false now that he had grown up and had time to put his teenage years in perspective with all the rest of his childhood. Daryl had been no different than anyone else; he made mistakes, he lost his temper more often than not, sucked at communicating and usually didn’t push to change that until situations escaladed far out of control. As he grew up he learned to hone that, channel it much like Rick had to this quiet calm that helped him make quick and precise decisions that had saved all their lives more than Rick could count. But he wasn’t infallible, he was just a man, and as much his heart tugged and pulled in his chest to just  _ trust _ that Daryl knew what he was talking about - experience still kept Rick hesitant. He trusted Daryl’s word and his knowledge, the processes he conducted in shadowed rooms among salt lines and candles and low spoken french words that flowed like silk. But in the cold light of day - sometimes it just hurt too much to trust his actions.

But this wasn’t someone’s life (as far as Rick knew, although he knew biohazard stickers when he saw them), and they were still on tender ground maneuvering around each other. He had to give Daryl a little leash. He still had to make up for the day before, and this careful balancing act of their combined attempts to renew their friendship and fighting at every turn was getting in the way of their main task. Cleansing the plantation house. 

So Rick merely nodded, turning away but not before catching Daryl’s shoulders slumping downward at his silent movement; either in ease that they weren’t going to continue arguing, or exasperation that Rick was back to being standoff-ish. Cause he sure as shit wasn’t  _ sad _ about Rick not trusting him as much as he used to, not from Rick’s experience. With a sharp crack of his neck, Rick pushed aside the emotions beginning to cloud his thoughts and just poured the two of them cups of coffee.

Daryl didn’t say anything when he took the mug, although he looked like he wanted to, and Rick didn’t have the patience in him anymore to try and wait to see if the Dixon was going to grace him with his thoughts.

“I got somethang to do in town anyway,” he said into the quiet, taking a sip that scalded but the pain was a good torrent for his aggravation. He still had a lot he wanted to talk to the Dixon about, but after getting kicked off the lot the night before and now out of his own house he was perfectly ready to just kick his boot heels up and put it off a bit longer. Gather some more information, although he had been hoping he would have Daryl along with him for the excavation. Another nostalgic hope for the old days, and by that point after the past few days events he couldn’t even be disappointed. “Might take a bit, but I can take long’r if ya need.”

“Should be done this aft’rnoon,” Daryl mumbled into his coffee, now watching Rick closely so the deputy just put on his public service smile and nodded back.

“Good, that’s good.” The smile stretched wide and showed too much teeth, and if Daryl had been in his life the past six years he would’ve seen through it clear as day. But instead they lapsed into the most uncomfortable comfortable silence Rick had ever experienced, drinking coffee in his Grandmother’s kitchen like the two separate counters they leaned against were continents apart. 

\--

The county sheriff office sat just a few miles outside of town, hidden close to the border with Liberty, and Rick hadn’t set foot in it since he’d hit puberty. He’d had no reason to, he and Shane actually managed to keep their noses out of trouble growing up (mostly in part to Daryl’s careful wisdom and interference) and Rick’s Grandpappy had left the force long before even Rick’s father had passed. But that didn’t stop him from being recognized as he approached the double glass doors. 

“Richard Grimes, what the hell’re you still doin’ in town?” Otis Wiltshire boomed with a wide smile across his face, standing at the receptionist’s desk in his fire department issued emergency medical outfit that looked to be getting a bit small for his round frame. Rick walked up to him mirroring the smile to take the older man’s hand, only to get pulled into a hug that nearly encompassed him.

“Just fixin’ up some thangs for Gan’ma around the house,” Rick told him with a laugh, managing to escape the bear of a man and get stuck beneath his beaming gaze. “It’s been gettin’ away from her.”

“Those ghosts of hers givin’ her trouble?” Otis teased, the sparkle in his beetle-like eyes showing he was trying to be good-natured about it. Not that he had to worry, Rick was sure the man didn’t have one bad bone in his body.

“Nah, but they ain’t helping fix the fences either; so I told her I’d take care of it,” Rick tried to say jovially, ignoring the sharp prick of cold in his chest as he thought of all the things crawling inside the walls of the Grimes plantation house. “What’re you doin’ here? Think you wandered into the wrong station house.”

“Oh hardy-har-har. No, just bringin’ the wife her lunch.”

“Patricia left the hospital?” Rick asked a little shocked.

“Just temping,” interrupted a short woman who came around the corner sharply with a stack of papers about to topple out of her arms. Both men darted forward to help a second too late, and she hefted the pile onto her desk before they could do much more than scramble. “Ain’t you boys sweet,” she teased with a grin, giving her husband a sweet kiss and a softer smile. “They were gettin’ short handed with Miss Sadie on maternity leave again, so I volunteered. Didn’t know how much work she had left behind.” She settled into her high-top chair and spun to give Rick her attention once more. “Anything I can do for you, Rick? Ya don’t need an officer do ya?”

“Nah, actually I came to see if I could take a look at some records,” Rick said with an obvious shift in his stance, standing a little taller and voice switching over to the tone he tended to use when he was on the job. “As long as it’s in public record.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem, most stuff is here - we’re pretty quiet,” Patricia joked, Otis laughing along and Rick thanked his lucky stars for small towns and being able to avoid any red tape.

“I came across a house in the woods that burned down years ago, just wanted to see who it belonged to,” Rick inquired, only letting the silence tick for a moment before plastering on a his best Good Ol’boy smile and chuckling heartily. “Thought Shane an’ I found every abandoned place this side of Lakewood, was jus’ surprised ta see it - was about melted into the ground.”

“You boys were always getting into trouble,” Patricia scolded with a small smile, already typing into her clunky computer’s search engine faster than Rick could read. “Where was this at?”

“Just off the Southside of the Greene farm, maybe about two miles out?” Adding a few more specifics, Rick could hear the computer click as it whirled loudly, Patricia’s frown deepening with each passing second. 

“Looks like ya need ta be more specific, dear,” she said with a click of her tongue. “Lots of fires ‘round here. ‘Specially b’tween 83 and 86, must’ve been a drought or somethin’.”

“For three years?”

“Just wha’ the computer says, hun.” Rick almost scoffed at that, there was no way there were that many fires in town over that long a period, they were Georgia for godssake - everything was too humid for fires. It just didn’t add up. He rounded the counter and looked over Patricia’s shoulder to see the long list of digitized files, and was shocked to find a good couple dozen between May of 1983 and October of 1986; multiple house fires, some sheds and warehouses, as well as a couple crop fields and the old White Oak church in ‘85. What the hell - had it been raining  _ kerosene _ ? 

“Jesus,” Rick cursed under his breath, Patricia letting him take over the computer mouse and skim through a few of the earlier ones, until he realized there was a pattern. “This doesn’ make sense.”

“What doesn’t?” Otis asked, now also leaning over to inspect the screen. 

Pointing to the locations of each fire along the far column of the screen, Rick connected a few as he spoke. “All these personal property fires are right next to each other, so you’d assume they all happened at the same time and the fire just spread - but they aren’t. They all happened…” Rick squinted at the screen as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, “...exactly four months apart. Over three years.”

“Well that’s odd,” Patricia muttered, taking the mouse back and rearranging the search options to show the pattern Rick had found. “Look, the reports switch around in a rotation.” she added, pointing out another pattern. “It’s like they’re not real.” 

“Who added them to the system?” Rick inquired, leaning heavily on the counter and trying to commit some of the information to memory. “These all happened before computers, so it would’ve been just a few years ago.”

“Probably Miss Sadie, then,” Patricia concluded, already pulling up modification dates - her eyebrows drawn down in concentration and a look of misgiving and conjecture pulling a frown at her lips, mirroring Rick’s own expression. Poor Otis just looked confused, but Patricia was catching on to Rick’s suspicions. The files had been tampered with. “Y’know, I love Sadie to pieces, but she ain’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier.” The older woman said quietly, giving a knowing look to Rick out of her peripheral. “She would’a just typed up what the document said, and wouldn’t have questioned it.”

Rick nodded, keeping his expression composed as he mulled everything over. “Those wouldn’t be located here, would they?”

“Should be,” Patricia answered, already taking out a pen and pad of paper to write down the file numbers. “You think your house ya found is in there?”

Rick had no doubt, but the time frame didn’t match. Daryl’s mom had died before he and Rick had met; how early in the redneck’s childhood, Rick wasn’t sure, but he had learned of her death when the boys were about eleven or twelve-years-old. That had been in the summer of 1984, right where the supposed mass of fires had happened. And Rick couldn’t recall them at all.

“I think so, but go ahead and widen the search to 1975.” The computer whirled, and immediately pinged with a new pop-up box reading  _ no files found,  _ making the silence surrounding them feel heavier with each passing second. 

“Miss Patricia, could you please get me copies of those files,” Rick asked so quiet it was almost a whisper. The older woman nodded, wide eyes looking from Rick back to the computer screen. “Quickly, if you could.” She jumped to her feet, brushing by the two men as quick as she could without bringing attention to herself. 

Otis watched her go in obvious confusion, trying to find words, but Rick barreled on before the man could ask. “I’d appreciate if you’d keep this to yourself, it could honestly be nothing but some misfiling - I’m sure they worked poor Miss Sadie to death when they got their computers a few years ago.” Otis was a good man, but Rick was wary and felt something cold and awful twisting in his gut at the thought that his Grandpappy’s old department might be covering something up. Something awful, like a serial arsonist, or a swamp fire that looked like it had consumed near half the town. It was taking everything in him to not speculate too wildly until he had a moment to look over the original reports. Or what he hoped were the original reports. 

“Ah - sure, sure,” Otis stuttered, still not understanding but Rick flashed him another of his standard ‘everything is going to be okay’ law enforcement smiles that seemed to ease his worry just as the bell for the door chimed behind him. “Oh! Captain Donovan, nice t’see you, sir!” Rick kept the smile stubbornly on his face with clenched teeth and a sickening drop of his heart to his stomach as he whirled to also greet the Captain of the local White Oak police. His apprehension increasing tenfold as he saw the current sheriff and long-time friend of his late-Grandpappy following through the door. 

“Otis! What a surprise,” Donovan laughed loud and booming in the little stone entryway. “And Rick Grimes! What’re you still doing in town?” Rick shook the large man’s hand, his gritted teeth helping hold back a wince from the pressure and strength behind the action - the Captain had a good six inches on him in height and near 50 more pounds of muscle. 

“Making up for lost time, sir,” he answered with a laugh, also shaking the Sheriff’s hand who was a much more quiet man but did not lack in equal composure or fortitude. “Gan’ma needed a few things fixed up around the plantation, and I was overdue for a vacation anyway.”

“A vacation is on a beach, Grimes, not in bum-fuck nowhere Georgia,” Donovan laughed, clasping him on the shoulder and giving him a good shake that made him near lose his footing. “An’ certainly not in the Sheriff’s station. You missin’ work that badly I’ll give ya some of paperwork.”

“That’s okay, I’ll have plenty to keep me busy here soon,” Rick admitted, struggling to keep the smile on his face. “Gettin’ the floors cleaned at the house, then I gotta work on the roof and the fences, patch up some of the doorways.”

“An’ hire an exorcist I bet,” Donovan jabbed, sending Otis and the Sheriff into chuckles as well. “For her ghosts, yeah?”

“Oh she’s keeping those, gives the place character,” Rick answered through his teeth, his jaw aching from the strain. How many people had his Grandmother told about her house? It must’ve been a recent thing, he had never heard anyone make fun of her like this - not in front of him, and it was taking everything in him to not punch the man in the teeth. Despite the fact he could probably put him in the ground. “Has she really been talkin’ about the place being haunted?”

“Everythin’s haunted ‘round here, Grimes. You’re in the Deep South, boy - can’t take two steps without tramplin’ on a grave,” Sheriff Saunders said, speaking for the first time since he came in the door. “Too much history.”

Rick nodded gravely, the smile having slipped off his face with the change in tone. “That’s what my Gan’ma told me not too long ago.”

“She’s a smart lady,” he smiled, obviously remembering something about Rick’s Grandpappy, but having the decency to keep it to himself. Instead he turned tired brown eyes and his full attention to the younger man. “How is she doin’?”

“She’s fine, thank you,” Rick answered honestly. “She’s stayin’ with the Greene’s this week while I do some of the more severe cleaning at the house; pest-bombing, the like.”

“Yer a good lad,” Saunders said, resting his hand on Rick’s shoulder and nodding at him. “Say hello to her for me?”

“Yes, sir,” Rick smiled small and genuine.

“An’ for me,” Donovan added, the two men about to head down the hallway before the Police Captain turned to him once more. “Say, what are ya doing here anyway?”

“Digging up some old files, I get restless easy and my Gan’ma likes ta spin her tall tales but she won’t tell me nuthin about what really goes on around here,” Rick said with a laugh that hurt his chest, trying to sound joking with the half truths he admitted to.

“Ain’t many secrets here in White Oak, we gotta keep the few we can,” Donovan laughed again, but this time it was stilted, and his razor sharp eyes were now inspecting Rick far more than the deputy had wanted. Shit, he hadn’t phrased that right, he’d been doing so well - 

Rick shrugged, forcing an easy stance and titled smile of his own, but he was unable to dial back the intensity in his own gaze. “I’m nosey, always have been.”

“Bet it drives yer partner up the wall,” Donovan joked, slowly coming back towards where Rick was standing at the reception desk. Otis had been silent the whole time, watching the exchanges and even he could see that Donovan was suspicious of something - although Rick didn’t know what. 

“Well it’s Shane Walsh, so he kind of deserves it.”

“Ha! I bet.” Donovan stopped just a few feet from where Rick leaned against the desk, and Rick prayed to whoever was listening that the screensaver was blocking the files from being viewed, and that Patricia would hurry up with the copies she was making. “So, what’s got ya so curious?”

“Well, you know that old church up by the cemetery? I heard it burned down in the 60s, but it doesn’t look like it - looks more like it’s been about 10 years or so.” Rick bullshitted, hoping the landmark would be a good distraction - but to his surprise Donovan’s eyes narrowed further at the mention of the church. The look disappeared as quickly as it had come, and then the Captain was chuckling and relaxing his stance in a way that lessened the vice of panic in Rick’s chest.

“Well, you’d be right about that. Happened back in ‘85, bad drought that summer - lot of places went up. Hell I’m surprised you don’t remember it.” Rick smiled at him again, and the gesture was starting to hurt his face. “But you got a good eye, hope yer boss has a good hold on you - that intuition ain’t somethin’ you can teach at the academy.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll be sure ta remind him.” Rick chimed, grinning until the Captain had fully turned to head back towards the Sheriff’s office - then his smile dropped like a fucking cinder block. 

What the _ fuck _ was going on?

Donovan shouted in surprise as he near ran into Patricia as she rounded a corner sharply with her arms full of files again - and bless her heart she gave him a hard time for not watching where he’s going and interrupting people who were actually  _ working  _ on a Monday. The old police chief laughed his booming laugh that echoed down the hallway, seeming to have temporarily forgotten Rick long enough for the woman to get to him at the front desk. She set down the pile, and immediately took off the top dozen or so files and near through them on her floor in the haste to get them out of the way and to the files beneath. Rick couldn’t believe how smart she was, sandwiching the copies in case she got caught, and not a moment later he had at least a dozen of his own files as crisp and new as the copy paper inside of them. 

“That should be everythin’,” Patricia whispered hastily. “1975 through 1986, and a couple from a few years after that were in the same drawer. Thought they might help too. Now get out of here before they come back.” She piled everything in his arms, Rick leaning in quickly to press a grateful kiss to her cheek.

“Thank you,” he whispered back, nodding to Otis as well and quickly leaving in the same hurried walk that was brisk enough to escape but not enough to draw attention. All of the files got thrown into his trunk, Rick’s shaking hands skimming through the labels to find the old White Oak church file and brought that with him to his front seat. Just in case.

With his heart beating a million miles a minute, Rick pulled out of the county sheriff station house parking lot and flew down the backroads like a bat out of hell - praying that he’d make it to the Greene farm without the familiar flash of blue and white lights behind him. For the first time wary of the badge and uniform he had pledged his life to. Of the power that he knew they had to make an entire life disappear, with something as simple as a few misplaced files and incorrect facts on a computer screen. A piece of history wiped away, forgotten and as if it never happened, and with no way of retrieving it. Rick had no way of knowing if the files in his trunk were accurate, or what they might contain if they were, but he had an inkling of what would happen if he was caught in possession of them. It kept his foot heavy on the gas peddle and his heart in his throat until he made it back to the outskirts of White Oak - the white-hot fear of panic prickling at his skin until the only thing he could see in his rear-view mirror was the Greene’s gravel drive and property fencing giving him sanctuary. 


	8. Thin Line

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another month, another chapter, I want to thank everyone who commented last time and for all of my readers who stay faithful to this story when life keeps getting in the way of my writing - my most recent obstacle being the WORST combination of horrific fatigue and all day morning sickness. I was laid up for almost 3 weeks and I'm only now getting the hang of it, I can't wait for this first trimester to be over XD but I'm really early in so we have many months and many more updates before the person I'm growing really occupies my time - so I'm going to do my best to finish this part of the story before that happens! And I will answer all of your lovely comments some time tonight <3 I am very much down with the sickness right now and need a little bit of time first for this baby to stop moving my insides like a transformer. 
> 
> Once again a big shout out to my lovely beta The_Royal_Gourd, we are a well oiled machine now and can bust out the editing process like no one's business ;) so now it's really up to me to get the material down. I don't know what I'd do without your expertise dear, thank you so much for all your hard work.
> 
> Only minor warnings in here strictly for triggering purposes, mostly revolving around Rick keeping his ghost that occupies his room a secret from Daryl. I do not condone people who have been assaulted hiding their problems from the persons who can help them the most; it is not healthy and not a burden someone should have to bear alone. Please always seek out someone, even if it's just someone to talk to - don't be like Rick. Rick does not always know best. 
> 
> Honestly these boys make me want to pull my hair out, fucking martyrs the both of them - but it will all be resolved soon I promise. Thank you again for reading, and I hope you enjoy.

\--

\--

Rick thought about the files scattered in the trunk of his little P.O.S. four-door the rest of the morning. All through the hours he spent on the Greene farm for an early lunch, seeing his mother off as she finally left to return to Kentucky, and placating his Grandmother into staying at the Greene’s just another couple nights. With Daryl’s precautions for the bluestones - of which Rick  _ still  _ hadn’t had a chance to see - he had a feeling it would literally be toxic to sleep in the house that night. So he assured her he would also be taking advantage of the Greene’s endless hospitality a little longer. Not that he was complaining at all. That living room couch had given Rick the most restful sleeps he’d had since he’d arrived back in White Oak.

But he also managed to pry himself from her need for company a little after one o’clock, telling her he needed to get back to Daryl and see if he needed any help completing his task before the sun set. Which was a valid reason, and Rick fully intended to do just that. But he also guessed that Daryl was going to shoo him away and tell him to leave him to work in peace, and who was Rick to say no? The deputy had plenty of other things he could be doing. Like finding a place under a Magnolia tree on the property far from the house, and spending the rest of his afternoon inspecting the two dozen files currently in the back of his car. He had it all planned out in his head. Rick had a lot of experience over the years getting used to balancing all his many duties while still touching base with the rest of his ventures - mostly thanks to Shane and his constant need for attention. To be honest Rick was surprised his partner wasn’t calling every other day, but he knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth so he didn’t ponder it too much.

The house didn’t look any different as Rick pulled up to it on the winding gravel road; it’s chipped white paint glinted sharply in the sun, just as bright as the surrounding area that colored everything in vivid arrays of green foliage and weathered neutrals of brown wood and dusty stone. All except for Daryl, who exited the house just as Rick was stepping out of his car, and Rick would’ve laughed if he hadn’t choked on the inhale. Daryl was soaked to the bone in sweat, his hair dark and matted and his clothes sticking to him heavily, causing his movements to be weighed down and sluggish. Every inch of skin was covered, his jeans clumped and bunching along with the long sleeves he wore, that clung to his arms and biceps as well as probably trapping in the heat. He had just snapped off the long gloves, throwing them to the ground far away from him, and slid the goggles up as well to rest on top of his head. The bandana and face mask were next, the bandana tied tight around his nose and mouth like a bandit from an Old Western, and the man gasped for fresh air as if he was dying for it.

“Did you rob a train?” Rick called to him, hesitating in his approach as he noted that the hunter’s knees, boots, and the bandanas that tied his pant legs to his shoes were all stained blue. Daryl squinted at him in the bright afternoon, and huffed out his non-laugh as he meandered down the steps with movements that oozed his exhaustion.

“Jus’ yer wallet,” he snarked, still squinting in the sun but the smirk tugging at his lips was a welcome sight. “Didn’ know ya were a broke-ass son’uva’bitch.”

“Serves ya right for snoopin’,” Rick taunted, halting a few feet from where Daryl had stopped at the bottom of the steps to fall backwards and relax against the crumbling cement blocks. There was a half finished glass of water that was waiting for him, and he snatched it up as if intoxicated. “Looks like you’ve been hard at work.” Face flushed from heat and downing water faster than a man stranded in the desert, Daryl just glared at him from his spot and fished in his pockets for his cigarettes only to turn the fabric inside out. 

“ _ Merde, _ ” Daryl swore under his breath, leaning back with his elbows resting on the steps behind him as he stretched out in the shade, wrestling out of his long sleeved shirt after near ripping open the top few buttons. He let the bottom half stay secured around his waist and sighed when the cool breeze hit the soaked wife-beater and sweat-slicked skin revealed; broad shoulders creating enticing shapes as he lulled his head back in both relief and exasperation. 

“Probably wouldn’t’ve wanted ta smoke those anyway,” Rick pointed out, he could smell the strong copper chemical smell wafting off Daryl’s clothes from where he stood in the grass and gravel. He’d suggest burning the clothes he was wearing, but for all Rick knew that would cause an explosion. Also, the prospect of Daryl losing more clothes in that moment was a little too much for him to handle. “...what ex’ctly  _ are _ bluestones?”

“Death ‘n a box,” Daryl complained, managing to partially sit up and regard Rick as best he could from where he lay. “Fuckin’ shit had a big, long ass warnin’ label wit’it about how ‘ _ toxic _ ’ it is an’ how ‘ _ no’one should’be usin’ it’ _ for blue water. Which is wha’ I need’d.”

“- and you still  _ used _ it?” Rick stared at him incredulously, arms crossed and whole body strung tight as a bowstring. But Daryl just waved off his disbelief.

“I call’d around, got some more instruction than tha’ damn chemical list from whate’vr college sent it’ta us. Dunno how Merle knew someone fr’m a  _ college _ , but they drove it down real quick fer us ov’r the weekend-”

“Let me see,” Rick didn’t specify if he wanted to see the stones or the chemical list, but Daryl was already shifting onto one hip so he could dig out a piece of paper stuffed into his back pocket. Rick gladly took it from him, and in big bold letters the top of the sheet read  **COPPER SULFATE** and even had an image printed in black and white next to the large blocks of text. The stones were indeed round, coarse in shape but smooth and chalk-like in appearance, and (as he skimmed the text) were apparently electric blue in color. “Daryl,” Rick began, saying his name slow and drawn out and grabbing the other’s attention reluctantly, because from the deputy’s tone he knew he was in trouble. “This was used for  _ pesticide _ ,” Rick ground out, holding up the paper for Daryl to see, “in the  _ 1800’s. _ It was changed to somethang less dangerous back in 1890!”

“Yeah, fer ritu’als wit’ hand-washin’ and sprinklin’ the stuff on oth’r people,” Daryl answered just as slowly. “But if ya wanna wash yer floors ya gotta use th’ real shit. Ain’t nuthin gonna purif’y a house if it’s made of fuckin’ bakin’ soda and blue food colorin’.” Daryl’s words were flippant, but the way he shifted and turned his attention towards the swamp, or really any direction except Rick’s, showed he was building up walls in his exhaustion - brick by brick blocking Rick from seeing something that flitted across his expression, and it looked sad but expectant. Maybe Rick had been a little too obvious that morning, pondering how little trust he now held in the Dixon and his choices. Questioning the only person who could possibly help him and his family, merely because he assumed that Daryl wasn’t even able to help his own family anymore - if the state of the lot and altar had been any indication.

But really who was Rick to doubt Daryl’s knowledge and abilities now, six years after they parted? He was the one that left, after all, so what if he didn’t know how the Dixon handled this world Rick knew so little about? What if he really did know what he was doing, and it was the best option? The only option?

Rick fell silent as his thoughts slowed to a stop, with only the sounds of the swamp floating in on the breeze fluttering around them; leaves dancing on their branches, birds calling, bugs and frogs and echoes of noise too far to distinguish. It sounded like  _ life _ here on the plantation, and it was in that moment Rick realized how different it was from the morning he had been in the Dixon lot - how still and abandoned that place had become. Rick had the fleeting thought that, because Daryl  _ obviously _ knew far more than he had back when they were young and scrambling to find ways to keep everyone alive, maybe it wasn’t that Daryl had  _ abandoned _ the altar and the lot his family called home. Daryl Dixon was not someone to give up, no matter what hand he was dealt, so maybe it was much simpler than that. He was constantly fighting a war with the disruptive balance of nature in White Oak, maybe his home was just a battle that he had lost - too far gone from his pa and brother’s antics for even the youngest Dixon to save. 

He had thought earlier that Daryl wasn’t infallible. He was just a man. There was a possibility that the Grimes plantation house would be another lost battle in Daryl’s war, but even if that ended up being the case Rick also knew the hunter wasn’t going to give it up without one hell of a fight. It was just his way. Rick still had trust issues, found it hard to believe in Daryl when the younger man had dropped the ball so many times in their most recent history - but ultimately he did have faith in what Daryl said. How could he not? With the vast knowledge the other contained, all that he had learned while Rick had been away, and how he arranged that information into deft plans and how determined he was to fix whatever was broken in front of him. It was easier to focus on all the bad instead of all the good, to forget that Daryl was  _ smart _ and knew what he was fucking talking about. Very slowly, Rick was beginning to regain trust in the other’s choices as well as his actions. The abilities that made him appear inhuman. It was a feeling that used to be natural, and comforting, and made so much more sense when Rick struggled past his own sense of stubborn doubts. He wanted to trust the other - just as he had a long time ago, when Daryl was a force akin to the wind curling between the trees, and the earth that stretched for miles beneath their feet.

“So,” Rick started again, clearing his throat and shifting his hands to his hips with a careful sway as he stepped back a step, regrounding himself back in the situation. As well as ignoring how Daryl was now watching him intently with piercing pale blue eyes. “Did it work?”

“Dunno yet,” Daryl mumbled, still inspecting Rick like he was a puzzle made up of impossible pieces. “Jus’ finished up, I’m only doin’ the first floor sinc’e everythin’ upstairs ain’t doin’ any harm.” 

Rick swallowed hard, trying to not let the horrible feeling of dread and fear cloud his voice - because it was crawling up his throat sickly and cold - when he asked tentatively. “Y-You ain’t gonna do the rest of the house?” 

“If it starts actin’ up,” Daryl answered slowly, eyes narrowed at Rick. “Why? Do y’know som-”

“Jus’ didn’t know ya could do only bits and pieces of it,” Rick managed to say, sounding more confident than he felt. “Thought Voodou was an ‘all or nothang’ kinda deal.”

“As long as I ge’t ev’ry part tha’ touches the ground, th’ rest will feel it too. Don’ need ta make more work fer m’self.” With a long aggravated sigh he fell back against the cool stone steps again but his arms followed suit as he rested those as well up around his head. “Also - fuck that, yer house is too damn big. Think m’arms are gonna fall off.”

Rick chuckled half-heartedly, turning his gaze down and digging his boots into the dirt in distraction, not even in the mood to trace every dip and curve of the hunter’s overworked arms in plain view. But he did feel a little relief - that Daryl’s ministrations might affect the hauntings on the upper levels too, without the deputy having to explain himself. Coupled with Daryl’s dry humor the fear ebbed away until it was just a dull ache he could forget.  “I am a little pissed I missed ya scrubbin’ my floors all morning, you consider takin’ up house cleaning?” he jeered, a smile curling up on one side as he practically heard Daryl’s head snap up.

“Fuck you, asshole!” He hollered, but there was a lilt that could’ve been a smile from the angle he was at in Rick’s peripheral. “Those fuckin’ blue balls of poison were a pain in my ass all mornin,’ and those floors were dirty as fuck! Y’all need ta start-”

“W-Wait, hold on,” Rick choked on his words and almost went into a coughing fit. “Did ya just call’em - yer really complain’ ‘bout the  _ blue balls  _ you had ta deal with all morning!?” Daryl’s eyes went wide and Rick lost it, doubling over in laughter that brought tears to his eyes. “W-Were, were they givin’ ya that much trouble, Daryl?” Daryl’s shirt had somehow gotten ripped off from around his waist and was thrown in Rick’s direction all balled up and heavy enough to make an impact as Rick tried to twist out of the way and failed. 

“SHUT YER FACE GRIMES!” All the red color returned to Daryl’s face in his embarrassed anger, the flush traveling all the way down his neck and across his chest just like when he was a teenager. 

“Ya should’a said somethang, Daryl,” Rick continued, wiping the tears that were threatening to run down his cheeks in mirth, and changing his glance to something playfully coy but still taunting. “I could’ve helped if it was such a  _ pain in your a _ -’”

“Don’chu dare, I swear ta God Rick.”

“Ya don’t believe in God,  _ Dixon _ ,” Rick grinned, not at all missing the spark of challenge in the other’s eyes that was anything but hateful. “But I do recall ya once upon a time callin’ his name over and  _ over-” _

Daryl knocked him to the ground, crossing the distance faster than Rick could blink and full-on tackling him with one of those broad shoulders hitting his gut like a battering ram. Thick arms around his waist gave Rick something to hold on to as his Tactical Defense Training kicked in on instinct, only on his back a split second before rolling them and pinning Daryl as best he could. He held onto both Daryl’s forearms and dug his fingers into the strands of grass beneath them to try and keep him rooted there. But Daryl was  _ strong.  _ His eyes had gone wide when he realized Rick had bested him, and before Rick could counter Daryl he was rolling the two of them again out of sheer strength - effectively pinning Rick to the ground once more. 

But Rick kept his grip tight on Daryl, managing to clasp his hands around the other’s wrists long enough to throw off his game. What Daryl had in strength, Rick had in skill and speed, and the two scrapped like teenagers in the yard until Rick was panting out laughter with each exhale - and Daryl was trying to hide how his grin was stretching wide, unpracticed, and awkward across his face. Rick got a full view of it when Daryl finally pinned his hands. 

Which only happened  _ after _ he managed to break free of Rick trying to trap him in a full-body lock, with a careful but exhausted grip behind his neck, and his long legs twisted between Daryl’s like a chinese puzzle. Daryl had fully wrenched his way out of the hold; and Rick’s back had hit the grass not a second later as his whole chest shook with laughter, dazed and smiling bright which Daryl was mirroring brilliantly. 

“If I knew knockin’ yer head inta the ground would’a help’d I’d’ve done it sooner,” he admitted, breathless and much closer than Rick expected him to be, pinning the deputy down with his body more than his hands. The copper smell was overpowering this close, and it made Rick’s head spin as he became painfully aware of every point of contact. Weight heaviest across his thighs and then his chest as Daryl lowered one forearm to the grass in exhaustion and shrunk the space between them to something so intimate Rick’s heart jumped to his throat. Their noses were almost brushing, if Daryl’s hair had been longer it would’ve touched Rick’s face. “Where’d ya learn ta fight like that?” 

“Not sure I’d call that fighting,” Rick deflected, attempting to sink back into the grass and not forward into Daryl’s warmth, the space between them a hot vacuum that stole his breath and would’ve sent him crashing into the other like that’s where he always belonged. Daryl must’ve noticed his attempt to retreat around the same time the close proximity slapped him in the face too, because he stalled his movements and stared for the longest moment. He lessened the tension by leaning back a bit but otherwise seemed perfectly content atop Rick’s form sprawled in the grass. Save for the intensity in his gaze - making the few heart beats he remained there stretch a lifetime. Rick’s own heart hadn’t slowed since their scuffle, and he was holding himself so still beneath Daryl that his whole body trembled with the effort. During the entirety of that delayed moment, waiting for Daryl to make up his mind, Rick wasn’t sure he was even breathing - which ultimately might’ve been when the Dixon took the hint. 

“Don’ be a dick, ya put me flat on my ass fer a minut’ there,” Daryl pointed out as he pushed himself up off of Rick and then fell unceremoniously into the grass beside him, shimmying in the grass until he’d dug his broad shoulders into a comfortable nest among the soft blades and warm dirt. Nothing but the blue cloudless sky above them and the gentle sounds of the swamp and grounds filling their senses, time a distorted thing after the short moment that felt like a year in Rick’s mind. “The academy teach’ya that?”

“Y-Yeah,” Rick managed to exhale, pushing back the images of how easy it would’ve been to drown in the other man moments before, how Daryl have been seconds from kissing him. No matter how much his brain screamed at him that he was seeing things, his heart ached and longed to hope it had been just how it looked. His brain always won out, it sounded too much like Shane reminding him that this couldn’t happen, even if Daryl was leaning towards testing the waters of what they could be. It wasn’t fair to either of them, that even six years later Rick was pretty certain he was still in love with the man, and Daryl still didn’t seem to know what he wanted. He changed his mind every other day, and -  _ fuck  _ that just wasn’t fair. Licking his lips, Rick managed to find words in the closed off cavern of his throat, mumbling them out to fill the quiet afternoon and keep Daryl from turning to stare at him again. “Defensive tactical training is required, learned it m’first year.” He didn’t need the Dixon watching him mentally fall apart in the grass, the close proximity was enough to keep his heart racing in his chest; the feeling of Daryl’s body beside him in the fresh lawn smelling of the swamp and yesterday’s rain too nostalgic for his soul to take. Even laced with the traces of copper sulfate that clung to the hunter’s clothes.

“Guess ya kept it up,” Daryl mumbled back, thankfully not looking at him.

“Shane spars with me.”

Daryl exhaled a scoff in a sharp huff, emitting this jealous air in a way that was surprisingly familiar and made Rick smile involuntarily. The nostalgia continued to stay caught in his chest, and the hurt lessened to the warm buzzed feeling from before, soaked in fondness and exasperation, and something that reacted pleasantly to the hunter’s possessiveness. Although neither would ever voice that aloud. 

“What? Not gonna ask how he is?” Rick teased, the smile stretched lazily and only quivering a little as he regained his bearings, his heart slowed to a point where it wasn’t beating harshly against his ribcage. Rick choosing to ignore whatever just happened, or what  _ almost  _ just happened, just as Daryl was doing. 

“Shit no,” Daryl grumbled as ripped at the lawn with one hand, finding a stick-like strand of crabgrass and sticking it between his teeth to replace the cigarette he so desperately wanted. “Bes’ fuckin’ thing ‘bout the las’ few years is not havin’ ta see his ugly mug ‘round ev’ry corner.” Animosity bled through Daryl’s words, as they had for most of their teenage years when the other was talking about Shane Walsh, but Rick wasn’t sure in that moment what it was bred from. There would always be bad blood between the two men, kept by their personal history and differences in social class, as well as continuing to fight over Rick like a toy in the sandbox even years past their original falling out. But Daryl couldn’t possibly still begrudge what Rick and Shane had, and continued to have; the two had lived together for a short time and were partners in the Sheriff’s department. Hell, the other man had been the one that stood by Rick six years ago when the Dixon had turned his back. Shane was the one constant in his life that was unwaveringly there for him no matter what happened, and Rick would never be able to pay him back for that. But defending his best friend to the man lying in the grass beside him was probably not going to help the situation in any way, shape or form. No matter how much spitting those facts out appealed to Rick, having something that he knew would actually hit home for the Dixon - but he was trying to close all the open wounds, not create new ones. Even though the hunter was making it  _ really  _ hard to do so, honestly Rick had never known another person that wasn’t a Dixon that so constantly put their foot in their mouth. Daryl had apparently picked up the familial habit of making situations worse without thinking, and being too proud to change it after the fact. 

Rick let the silence speak for itself, Daryl seeming to err on the side of caution and thankfully didn’t add anything to his statement, the two men still once again sharing the same state of mind as they let the sun and earth seep into them and bleed away the tension. The ground beneath them more anchoring in that moment than Rick had experienced since the ritual near two weeks before - and Christ, had it really been almost two weeks? It had been almost three since he’d gotten the call of his grandpappy’s passing, 15 days since they had laid him in the ground, the same red Georgia clay that Rick and Daryl rested on and that thought alone would’ve sent him spinning if he hadn’t been so rooted to the earth.

“Yer thinkin’ too loud,” Daryl said from somewhere beside him, the words grousing but the tone worried, and Rick couldn’t tell if he had shifted closer or if they were still continents apart. Like they had been in the kitchen that morning. 

“Sorry,” Rick drawled on reflex, not daring to open his eyes and not even sure when he had closed them. “Was thinkin’ of m’grandpappy.” He was just up the road after all, next to the burned remains of the Old church, not too far away from where that giant white oak tree stood - the shadows probably touched his grave in the late hours of the day. The earth probably hadn’t even settled. 

The silence beside him turned to a physical thing, palpable enough that Rick could feel it and it disrupted his thoughts enough to turn his attention to the other. He somehow knew that Daryl had shifted up to his elbows and was looking at him, could hear his thoughts running through his head and a small smile graced his face at the thought. “Now who’s thinkin’ too hard?”

When Daryl still didn’t answer Rick finally opened his eyes to the bright world, everything tinted shades of blue from having them closed for so long against the bright sun, but that only made Daryl’s eyes radiate all the more. 

“I n’ver said sorry, ‘bout yer gran’pappy,” he said quietly, looking a little ashamed even and that touch of manners made Rick’s chest blossom with warmth once more. 

“Yeah you did,” Rick reassured him, not even bothering to hide his fond smile. “I saw the pennies, after we all left.” Daryl’s surprise was a refreshing sight, and Rick continued before the other could even open his mouth. “I went back,” Rick told him, not looking away from the other’s gaze. “Wanted a few with him and my old man, I hadn’t visited him ‘n a while.” Rick made sure Daryl still had his attention trained on him when he spoke his next words, “Thank you, for doing that.”

“Wasn’ nuthin’-”

“It meant the world to me,” Rick told him honestly, piercing blue stare not letting Daryl look away. “Even pissed as I was at you, just knowin’ you were looking out for them - seeing that they made it th’ other side -  made me feel so much b-” Rick’s heart jumped to his throat and choked off his words the instant Daryl shifted closer, his eyes darting down to his mouth and back up to his eyes and only hesitating when Rick stopped talking - knowing he’d been caught in what he was about to do. And this time Rick knew he couldn’t find it in himself to stop what he’d wanted to happen for so fucking long, Shane’s words in his head be damned. 

But they hesitated too long, both felt the cool air that radiated from the plantation house like an arctic wind, and Rick’s bruises from a few days prior ached with new-found vigor. If it hadn’t been for that, the hiss of pain Rick emitted before Daryl could get any closer, then he would’ve ignored it and continued to hope Daryl Dixon actually had the balls to kiss him after all he’d put him through. Rick knew he was the one that had broken their silent pact the day before to remain out of each other’s space, but he seemed to be getting the short end of the stick in the situation every time. 

Snapping their attention to the house, Rick scanned every window and  _ prayed _ he didn’t see the same black thing that haunted his nightmares to that day, and luckily nothing was staring down at them. But Rick could not shake the feeling of being watched, hatefully and possessive, with the same ice cold feeling of the thing that had been occupying his room and his bed against his will. Mentally he cursed, a scowl readily replacing the smile that had been gracing his features moments prior, already aggravated and disappointed to top the feeling that they had just pissed off the spirit even more than before. Daryl just watched the house carefully, observing and waiting for more outcomes, maybe even weighing possibilities like that the blue stones finally taking effect were causing the cold bleeding from the house - and his ignorance frustrated Rick even further. He used to not be able to keep anything from Daryl, did the other really not even get a hint of what was going on?

Rick sat up, jostling Daryl from his position leaned towards Rick as if protecting him from the house, until he too scrambled to his feet and couldn’t seem to look at the deputy’s face. Rick sighed heavily through his nose and tried to not let it bother him, he really shouldn’t have expected anything else from the other man, and looked down at himself to brush off the remaining dirt and grass only to groan in annoyance. “Really?!” Daryl sure as shit snapped up at that, eyes wide as they could get in the bright afternoon and  _ so _ not ready to be called out on his actions - only to see what Rick’s exasperation was really pointed towards. Rick glared at him as he tried to scuff at the marks on his pants with his boots, not sure he could touch the blue stains with his hands. “You know anythang to get his shit out of clothes?” Daryl just stared, mouth clamped shut until his brain seemed to reboot enough to answer.

“Think we jus’ hav’ta burn ‘em,” Daryl managed to mutter. Rick sighed again and gave up contorting enough to reach the stains and instead kicked at the ground to get the transferred color off his boots. Like hell he was burning his boots. 

“Of fuckin’ course, too busy makin’ magical potions to keep the spirits away - no time for magical laundry detergent. Just kill the rest with fire.” Rick grumbled in annoyance, sending one last pointed glare at Daryl. “Guess we’re having a bonfire. If I die from the fumes I’m hauntin’ yer ass forever.”

\--

The first thing Rick did when he splayed all the county file folders on the Greene’s coffee table later than evening was attempt to put them in order by dates. Most were fires, which still rubbed Rick the wrong way because how could there be so many fires in a place as humid as White Oak all year round? The dates were where he was hoping to find a pattern, and he ultimately did. A few dates had been altered, 7’s turned to 8’s with the last number being indistinguishable in the scribble over the old number - but it wasn’t hard to see that nearly all the fires had happened in only two summers, 1979 and 1980. It took a while to see the similarities with the changed dates, but once Rick had discovered it he instead started flipping through each file individually. Not much else in the files were altered, and no one was killed in any of the incidents, but some of the street addresses were ones he didn’t recognize, or the location was only vaguely written as if even the county sheriffs couldn’t have told you where it was on a map. One deputy in particular, Horvath, took impeccable notes and even sometimes just wrote directions instead of street addresses. That and his legible handwriting made him Rick’s favorite person on the force in 1980.

Rick spent hours pouring over the detailed reports, trying to put each in piles by dates as best as he could guess, but failing in knowing locations made it difficult to connect many dots. It wasn’t until the grandfather clock in the dining room chimed 3am that Rick realized he had been reading the same paragraph over and over because he couldn’t retain it any longer. He might have even dozed off while holding the file. Looking down he realized it was the file on the Old Church fire out at White Oak cemetery, and it was the first time he had seen the name of the town in a file. Most of the fires were located in the county, and Rick hadn’t fully gone through all 26 files that Patricia had given him, but the ones he had might not even be in the city limits of White Oak. Rick closed the file and set it haphazard on the rest to remember where he left off, and turned to stretch fully on the long couch that had been his bed all weekend, not even awake enough to cover himself with the quilt within reach.

He barely felt like he’d closed his eyes before that familiar feeling of being watched clouded every sense and thought, the blackness of what Rick thought to be a restful and dreamless sleep interrupted as it always was sometime in the night. Dread soon joined the feelings, expectant and not at all confused as to why the dream was affecting him so far from the Grimes plantation until a hand was on his shoulder and gently shaking him. 

“Rick,” Daryl whispered, gentle yet still rough and road-worn, remnants of the gentle glide of tires on gravel backroads. This wasn’t a new approach, but it was one of Rick’s favorites, he could forget for a minute that he wasn’t just dreaming of the Daryl he missed so dearly. “Rick,” he called again, and Rick didn’t want to open his eyes, didn’t want to shatter the illusion of being comfy and half-asleep to move on with the dream he would have to wake himself from. He no longer fought at the beginning, Daryl would kiss him and Rick would sink into it like a man dying of thirst, relish in the feeling until the sensations stopped burning with warmth and started burning with cold. Rick had learned to push back, to stop the kiss - no matter the confused and sometimes heartbroken look on his dream-Daryl’s face - and do whatever he could to wake himself up. He had never let the dreams go as far as they had that first night, only once or twice after losing himself and almost tipping over that edge once more, with gritted teeth and an inner strength he’d forgotten he possessed Rick put his foot down to whatever the spirit was doing to him. He refused to feel that… violated again, which was what probably made the spirit in his room so angry at him. The bruises it left were layered and refusing to heal, even so far from the house.

But he wasn’t at the house.

That made Rick open his eyes to Daryl sitting beside him and leaning over him much too close - not expecting him to be awake to witness it yet - the curved line of his side somehow still fitting to Rick’s perfectly from where he was seated and Rick couldn’t help thinking again how unfair that was. That they still fit like two puzzle pieces, refusing to click together except for these dark recesses of his mind, and there was a small part of him that was waiting for it. That watched Daryl through bleary eyes and stray sleep mussed curls, waiting for Daryl to move in closer and pull Rick from the comfortable cover of sleep into a kiss that sent warmth all the way down to his toes. Fuck he missed that feeling, and his dream-Daryl was taking too long, was he really going to have to do it himself? Rick shifted to his elbows with difficulty, still not having blinked the sleep from his eyes, only to freeze in place as Daryl moved back in tandem with his movement to give him room.

“‘Bout time, I was close ta splashin’ water on yer face,” Daryl told him, a small yet uncertain lilt to his lips settled there like he wasn’t sure if he should be smiling or teasing. “Best be glad I couldn’ find a mark’r, neither.”

“Ain’t you a little old to be drawin’ dicks on people’s faces, Dixon?” Rick groused lowly, voice raspy with sleep and rubbing a hand down his face to hide the utter shock that was settling in with a cold fear that Rick had 100% been ready to grab Daryl and pull him into a kiss if Daryl hadn’t pulled back out of his space. Shit he must have really stayed up too late, thinking it was the same dream he’d been having back home. What was Daryl even  _ doing _ there? “What time iz’it?” 

“Li’ b’fore eight.”

Rick groaned and collapsed back on the couch again, hands coming up to rub at his eyes sockets harshly like he’d black them out so much he’d just pass right back into the  _ apparently _ dreamless sleep he’d been having before Daryl’s fucking wake up call. He felt the dampness of his button-down shirt stick to his skin with the motion, pulling up as he stretched a bit and arched to crack the tightness in his spine from sleeping on the couch - and Daryl’s sharp intake of breath made him cease before the other barreled past what could’ve been a very provocative situation.

“Holy  _ shit _ , did I do that?!” 

With gentle and quick movements Daryl’s hands were at the hem of his sweat-damn shirt and lifting to see the bruises that littered his sides and hipbones, but Rick was just as quick to sit up and pull it back down to cover the marks before Daryl noticed they were shaped like fingers. 

“No!” he said too fast, too loud in the face of Daryl’s stricken and horrified expression. “No, no it wasn’ you - I’ve had them for a bit! Somethang from weeks ago…” Rick tried to lie, tried to sound convincing while batting Daryl’s advances away. “Domestic call, some chick wouldn’t let go of me, held on for dear life. Marks are too small to be yer hands, trust me.” He didn’t know where the story had come from, it felt more like truth than a fib, but it certainly wasn’t his own. “Would’ya  _ stop! _ ”

“Jus’ lemme see ‘em!” Daryl snapped at him, not taking Rick’s word for it and wanting to get a hands on look - like he always did. An endearing quality turned to an annoyance in that moment. “Ya shouldn’ still be all mark’d up like that, ‘f it was weeks ago. I know ya bruise like a peach bu’-”

“I do  _ not _ !”

“Ya ever think it was somethin’ in yer  _ house _ keepin’ ya from healing?” Daryl accused, stunning Rick enough to get a good grip on his shirt and push it up to his navel to inspect the marks along his hipbones. “Thes’ look brand fuckin’ new, Rick! Four days at’most.”

“Well, they’re not,” Rick muttered, the lie sticking heavy on his tongue but luckily Daryl kept his gaze on the bruises, tracing gentle hands over the marks carefully. “See, too small to be yours,” the words came out of his mouth like an epiphany, a slow realization coming to light as he did see the hands were about the size of an adult female’s. He really didn’t know anything about the ghosts in his grandparent’s house, so it was almost impossible to know who the marks might belong to. It still gave him the creeps that he also might be distantly related to whoever was crawling into bed with him every night. 

“Do they hurt?” Daryl asked quietly, worried enough to not conceal his anger very well - he was pissed that Rick had kept it a secret. Rick knew that. But Rick was only confident in that because he’d been just as pissed when he found out Daryl was doing something potentially dangerous and illegal when he wasn’t with Rick at the plantation house. The lies were piling up on both sides. It really was a two-way street, neither party was innocent in this, and Rick was getting so tired of them keeping such obvious and big secrets from each other. Did Daryl also suspect there was really something larger at work, just as Rick did with the activities happening in Mayfield? 

“Sometimes,” Rick admitted in response, taking in every trace of worry painting Daryl’s expression. Anxious concern carefully etched into the other’s face, smooth angled lines of his high cheekbones only making the dark exhausted smudges and the shadows cast by his long eyelashes all the more prominent. Especially in the faint morning light filtered through pale laced curtains. It made him appear ethereal.

Daryl’s worry, his distress and concern for others, was the most honest quality about him. It didn’t matter it was years later, or that Rick knew both he and Daryl were lying and keeping secrets from each other. This, right here, the disquiet and attention he gave when something was wrong - that the other would always take on like a sworn-duty instead of a burden - was as close to the real Daryl he had known and loved for years as he was ever going to get. He didn’t know why, but the brutal honesty of it all was like staring into the space between the trees in the swamp, or the depths of a lake, something unfathomable but so true it could shake a man to his core. It was this feeling, knowing this was as close to Daryl pouring his heart into his hands and offering it to Rick, that kept his tongue still. From spilling more lies, to cushion what he’d been trying to pass for a story he knew he could make the other believe if he wanted. He could’ve said that he’d been making the bruises worse in his sleep, or he kept touching them so it wasn’t healing, or that he’d been wondering why they haven’t been getting better too - but in that moment Rick couldn’t bring himself to do it. He didn’t want to lie to Daryl any more, not when he was caring so much and so openly that Rick’s heart could barely take it. 

“How off’en is sometimes?” Daryl’s hands were as soothing as a balm on Rick’s heated and aching skin. The bruises hadn’t acted up since the day before, only resounding with a dull ache when he laid on them or his shirt clung to the colored skin, but with Daryl’s rough fingertips gently tracing them and splaying his fingers over the marks as if to constantly convince himself he didn’t leave them - the pain lessened and cooled. In a sensation that reminded Rick of chewing on peppermint leaves. But Daryl didn’t have anything in his hands, which was astounding all on it’s own. 

Daryl looked up at him when Rick didn’t answer, too lost in the relief Daryl’s touch was giving, and when the other locked pale blue eyes with his own - Rick didn’t know how to answer.  _ Everytime I’m in my grandparent’s house. _ Those words would reveal too much, but fuck Rick wanted to stop  _ lying _ to Daryl, so badly he wanted to. 

But was he really ready to tell him the truth?

Luckily, he didn’t have to.

\--

From outside the window they heard the sharp, shrill sound of a high-pitched scream that had both men scrambling off the couch and sprinting for the door before they even registered that it belonged to the youngest of the Greene’s. Beth was near sobbing out her words  but they became clear as the men burst out the door and rounded the house like hell itself was on their heels. “MAGGIE DON’T! LEAV’IT ALONE!” 

They came up to the side of the little hand-made coop where Beth was pulling at her sister’s arm trying to get her away from the tall grass bordering the old wooden walls, the two year old in hysterics and really no match for her sister’s strength but even Maggie looked confused to Beth’s outburst.

“Beth it’s gonna get th’ chickens!” She tried to argue but the little girl just kept screaming. 

“DON’T! PWEASE DON’ KILL IT!” 

“LEGGO OF ME!”

“HEY!” Rick called sharply, making the two girls stop yelling at each other as they neared them enough to try and inspect whatever was causing all the fuss. “What’s going on?” he demanded, in a tone he had used often that practically ordered authority and compliance. 

“MAGGIE’S GONNA KILL IT!” Beth continued to cry loudly, which caused the 11-year-old to get angry again and begin defending herself just as loudly.

“IT ALMOST BIT AMY!”

“One at a time!” Rick snapped, ceasing the yelling again. “What’re you two talkin’ about? Where’s Amy?”

“There’s a rattler ‘n the grass,” Maggie burst out before Beth could start crying again, pointing to the tall grass against the wall of the chicken coop. “Amy ran in the barn caus’ it almost got her! Then she ran all th’ way home when I told her I had it corner’d!” Daryl was already ushering the girls back a few more feet, Rick aiding him by guiding Maggie by the shoulder but Beth started to bawl again and Rick had to kneel down to half hug her and half hold her from going to where Daryl was approaching the tall grass.

“It’s jus’ a l-little one,” Beth tried to tell him, big blue eyes still flooded with tears that had turned her cheeks red from crying. “Don’ kill it! It’s jus’ a baby!”

“It’s still gonna get th’ chickens, Beth!” Maggie argued again but Rick shushed her and picked Beth up off the ground so she could watch Daryl better. The older girl huffed but at one look from Rick she held her tongue and crossed her arms petulantly, also watching Daryl as he kneeled to the ground and started picking through the grass. Rick wouldn’t have been surprised if the snake had gotten away while the girls were screaming, scared to death of the sounds and commotion, but he saw the moment Daryl found the snake. His shoulders going tense and his whole body becoming very still, he parted a few taller strands and ticked his head to the side as he watched what must have been a small thing because Rick couldn’t see it. Which meant neither could the girls; Beth near tumbled out of his arms in her haste to get on the ground and see it.

“Hold on, hold on,” Rick told her quietly. “It’s already scared from y’all hollerin’ so much, let Daryl get it.” Beth looked at him desperately and opened her mouth to probably ask very loudly once more to spare it so Rick dipped his head down until she was looking him in the eye. “He’s not gonna kill it, promise. But we gotta be quiet.” He caught Maggie’s eye too as he said his last statement, and the girl still didn’t look happy she got over-ruled but she complied with a scowl on her face. 

Daryl was as still as a statue, except for his hand which reached into the grass slowly and stayed extended as if offering something a hand up. Rick could make out Daryl whispering something, but it was lost of the wind and the quiet symphony of the farm around them. After a long stretch of silence that only encompassed a few minutes, Daryl brought his hands close to his chest, and carefully weaved between his rough, tan fingers was the body of a small snake with distinct grey and black diamond patterns adorning it’s scales. 

It wasn’t shaking it’s rattler, and it didn’t even look distressed as it carefully tasted the air; and it really was a young snake, it couldn’t have been more than ten inches long. Daryl got a gentle hold behind it’s head at the very base of it’s spine and jaw, and pivoted a little on his heels where he had been crouched low to the ground before gesturing with a quick nod that the girls could come closer. Maggie didn’t budge but Beth made her way over as quick and quiet as a two and a half-year-old could, tip-toeing loudly until Rick’s gentle grasp stopped her from getting too close again. 

“It was jus’ scared,” Daryl told her in that low rumble that wasn’t quite a whisper. “Almos’ got stepp’d on jus’ tryin’ ta cross th’ yard.” Beth made the first motions of a smile, shy and still quivering a little when she sniffed her runny nose, but she looked so awed and relieved it made Rick smile fully for her. “If yer real careful, bet she’ll let ya pet her.”

“It’s a girl?” Maggie asked from over Rick’s shoulder, having come in closer when she deemed the situation safe. 

“Best I can tell,” Daryl told her, keeping a careful eye on Beth’s small hands reaching out ever so slowly to press feather-light touches on the snake’s scales, gliding down so soft like she was scared of breaking the tiny creature. “Too young ta know bett’r ‘bout coming this close to th’ house, it’ll know for next time.” 

“Ya gonna let it go?” Maggie asked warily, watching Beth touch the snake’s scales like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to join her.

“Over by th’ woods, yeah,” Daryl said, letting Beth get her eye-full of the baby snake before rising to his feet and heading towards the tree line with it - the two girls following him a few feet behind before Rick could stop them. The snake had relaxed again by the time they reached the cool grassy area of the damp shade beneath the trees, and Rick couldn’t help the quirk of his lips at seeing Daryl with a fucking rattlesnake weaving between his fingers like it was something you could pick up at a petstore. Beth was all wide-eyed and in awe of Daryl, a wide grin shining brightly and not showing a bit of dimming in the slightest, and Maggie was more dumb-struck and quiet. Like the one skeptical kid at a magic show. 

Rick stopped the girls again when Daryl went to a sunny spot that had managed to break through the tree canopy, crouching down again to let the snake slide off his hand at it’s own pace and onto the warm ground contently. “You girls know ya ain’t supposed ta try that on your own, right? Daryl’s a professional with snakes, they ain’t gonna be as nice if you try to pet them without him there.”

“I know that,” Maggie told him, more distracted than snappish, but Beth looked a little more reluctant before nodding in agreement. He’d have to ask Daryl to talk with the small girl and tell her the same thing, the last thing he needed was Hershel having to deal with his youngest trying to pet rattlesnakes. 

Daryl came up to join them, looking pretty content himself, and maybe even a little bashful with Beth’s wide adoring eyes watching his every move - which was endearing as fuck and Rick had to bite his tongue to keep from saying anything. But Maggie was also staring at Daryl, and it didn’t take more than a minute for both men to notice it. Daryl, being Daryl, stared right back just as defiant, because he was probably just about as mature as Maggie was when it came to squaring off. But that only pushed Maggie over the edge.

“Are you a witch?” 

“ _ Maggie! _ ” Rick blanched, feeling like the bottom of his stomach had just dropped out, but Daryl didn’t even bat an eye. The little girl looked a little put off at Rick’s disapproval, shame staining her tan cheeks red, but she still waited for an answer.

“Do I look like a witch t’ya?” Daryl asked her back, probably looking really scary to someone still in elementary school, but bless her heart Maggie just puffed out her little chest and stood her ground.

“Kinda,” she admitted. “Ya talked to the snake!”

“You talk to yer horses? Chickens? To get them to go where you want?” Rick added in, trying to convey through looks alone that Daryl needed to stop verbally fighting a fucking eleven-year-old girl, but with a pointed look he could see that the hunter merely wanted to teach her a lesson. Rick suppressed a groan in agitation, he wasn’t sure what to think about Daryl Dixon around  _ children _ .

“Well, yeah,” Maggie groused, still not looking convinced. “But that ain’t the same, ya were holdin’ it.” Fear had started creeping into her voice, as if she wasn’t sure Daryl was really human - Rick could relate to the feeling, he had often wondered the same thing when he witnessed what the other man could do. “It wasn’ scared of ya.”

“An’ you shouldn’ be, neither.” Daryl told her, lowering himself to the ground again so he was closer to her level, even having to look up at her a little because of her lanky height. “Look - I ain’t scary, I jus’ know how stuff works. If ya list’n hard ‘nough then everythin’ eventu’lly starts talkin’ back. They wanna be heard, it’s why th’ world’s so loud all th’ damn time. All the bugs ‘n animals’ and plants all tryin’ ta talk all at once. Ev’n the wind and the trees make a ruckus sometimes.”

“Trees don’ talk,” Maggie said with a scrunched up nose and a scowl back on her face. 

“Yeah they do, list’n.” Daryl instructed, and the group fell still as the sounds from the swamp filtered into the space left empty by their silence. It only took a minute for a breeze to come rushing from the South, rustling the leaves and branches until a calming white noise filled their senses, and Beth burst into giggles as she watched the trees come alive around them. “See?” 

“That’s jus’ the wind,” Maggie complained.

“Nah, the wind whistles an’ whispers. The trees chatter and shake their leaves, drop branches an’ fruits an’ make noise when they wanna. You jus’ ain’t payin’ attention when they do.” Maggie still looked uncertain, but seemed to at least decide that Daryl wasn’t as scary as he seemed before, and for that Rick let out a breath of relief.

“Ya still ain’t answered me,” the little girl pouted quietly, which only made something that might have been a smile lighten the features of Daryl’s face. Never in a million years did Rick think that, when faced with a question so specific about the stereotype of his life and religion, that Daryl would  _ smile _ . The amusement shone in his eyes brightly, and even Maggie seemed to take comfort in that, but Rick decided to intervene a little once again when Daryl showed no signs of answering her at all. Dramatic bastard. 

“Why would you ask that, Maggie?” 

“It’s all th’ grown ups are talkin’ ‘bout,” Maggie said like it was obvious, but apparently Rick and Daryl weren’t up to date on the town gossip, because one look at their confused faces made her roll her eyes dramatically. “Ya had ta hav’ heard ‘em, I’m a kid an’ I know all about it!” 

“People have been talking about witches?” Rick asked carefully, sending a glance to Daryl who had finally started looking on edge and worried. 

Maggie nodded her head enthusiastically, “they been writing words on th’ wall. Auntie Clara said it’s been a long time since anyone done that, so the witches must be back.”

“They said that?” Rick asked but Daryl stepped in before he could interrogate her further. 

“What wall?” Daryl more demanded than asked, and Maggie’s eyes went wide as her enthusiasm bled out of her expression, enough that Beth made a small sound and clung to her sister’s arm and Rick sent a stern look Daryl’s way. He had a lot of questions too, but Maggie Greene probably wasn’t the right person to get them from. She was only eleven. How was she to know if there had been witches in White Oak before? Or whatever they were, and why people were talking about them? The only time Maggie would’ve seen Clara Greene would’ve been after Sunday mass, which meant it had reached the popularity level of small town gossip. Rick was kind of surprised he  _ hadn’t  _ heard about it.

“What wall, Maggie?” Rick pressed, a little more gentle than Daryl but still using his authoritative tone.

“The  _ Witches Wall, _ ” Maggie almost whispered, slow and careful, like she would get in trouble for just speaking the words. 

“Where is that?”

“Everyone knows ‘bout the  _ Witches Wall _ , it’s b’hind the old church in th’ swamp.”

“I been in thos’ woods a coupl’ times, ain’t no wall that I coul’d see,” Daryl told Rick, stance rigid and fidgeting like he wanted to pace back and forth like a caged animal. He was already beginning to move his feet in agitation, but was doing his best to collect himself with the two girls watching him. Especially Beth, who hadn’t really taken her eyes off of him as she continued to cling to her sister’s shirt hem.

“Ya can’t find it unless yer lookin’ for it, silly,” Maggie said with a little renewed defiance in her high-pitched twang. “It’s  _ bewitch’d _ .” And that was a concept Rick was more than familiar with, maybe there was something to the urban legend Rick had  _ apparently _ never heard about in all the time he’d spent in White Oak. But they were always told not to go by the cemetery, and Daryl’s house was the opposite direction, so Rick hadn’t spent a lot of his summers in that part of the woods. Rick had other apprehensions about the wall, and really wanted to see what it was, since he had been asking about the church just the day before and apparently there had been spooky activity going on there. No wonder the White Oak Police Captain had been suspicious of him snooping around.

“Maggie,” Rick said to get the girls undivided attention, “can you show us where it is?”

“I ain’t suppos’d ta go in those woods, Daddy said it ain’t safe,” she answered frantic and unsure, a fear embedded in disobeying her father and in going somewhere morally forbidden.

“It might be, but you’ll have me and Daryl there with you the whole time,” Rick reasoned with her. “A sheriff's deputy,” he said pointing to himself, and then pointing to Daryl “and the best tracker in the county. You’ll be safe with us.”

Maggie was still really quiet, eyeing them both like they could be lying to her, before peering at Daryl once more and mumbling, “‘d feel bett’r if he was a witch.”

Daryl just let one of his more watered down smirks crawl up across his face, a teasing light in his eyes that never failed to make Rick smile too. “Who said I ain’t?”

“Then why don’cha know ‘bout it?” Maggie demanded.

“Maybe I ain’t that kinda witch.”

“Okay you two,” Rick intervened, knowing they were about two seconds from just sticking their tongues out at each other, but all their antics apparently were funny enough to startle a giggle from Beth who had been quiet the entire time. “Let’s get Beth back to the house, an’ I’ll drive us out to find this invisible wall.”

“It ain’t  _ invisible _ ,” Maggie groaned, rolling her eyes again. “It’s jus’ a wall!”

“Then wha' makes it a  _ ‘Witches Wall’ _ , smarty pants.” Daryl teased, even going as far to make air quotes - which had Rick rolling his eyes as well. Apparently Daryl around children regressed him back to the age of twelve. They had started back across the yard, Beth immediately attaching herself to Daryl’s hand as they climbed the careful slope up the hill from the woods. But both men stopped in their tracks when Maggie ran ahead of them and spun around, sporting a smirk of her own that would’ve put any of the Dixons to shame.

“Cause it stands up all on it’s own.”


	9. Truth, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to apologize for the super duper long delay, I know I skipped last month's update and I have no excuse except life and that this chapter gave me a run for my money. My usual 8-10k word count has turned to 12k, and this is only part 1 of what I wanted to get out. So I hope that makes up a little for lost time. This part of the story is very important and I've had it in my head since I started working on SD: Possessed last summer - it's a lot to live up to, this image in my head, so I spent a long time planning out every nook and cranny of it.
> 
> For those who are still around, thank you so much for your patience and dedication. You truly are what keeps me going, and I hope you enjoy this next installment. The only warnings I can give you without giving much away is Rick has another dream, and this one borders on a nightmare, less molesty-ghost and more horror driven. (My favorite part, obviously) But if you've gotten this far you are used to the horror aspects, it's actually a little tamer than I pictured so it's not too bad. Lost of plot, lots of words, and a big thanks to my ever faithful beta The_Royal_Gourd for helping me get it all presentable. Any mistakes left are my own. Enjoy :)

\--

\--

Rick drove them to the White Oak cemetery in record time, pulling into the grassy lot that used to be a dust and gravel parking area years ago, and letting the car creep forward so the remains of the old church blocked it from view of the plantation road. He had to force it partially into some taller grass, and Daryl had to help Maggie out of the car by lifting her out and over it easily - but as soon as she hit the ground she was making a bee-line for the South side of the property. Rounding the charred building that still didn’t look like it should be standing, they skirted the cemetery that had a different air to it than the last time Rick had been there. Before it had felt peaceful and respectful of the life and death celebrations it hosted on it’s grounds, but now it was less accepting and more expectant - like it was waiting for something big to happen. Rick fought the feeling of shivers that raced up and down his spine, and instead followed Daryl and Maggie as they broke through the tree barrier and into the swamp.

It wasn’t until they were a good couple yards in that Rick realized this was the first time in six years that he’d been in a swamp with Daryl Dixon. Following his footsteps and mimicking his actions just as he used to all those summers ago when they would spend hours getting lost between the trees. Ducking under the same branches, stepping on the same stones and avoiding the same fragile things desperately trying to grow on the forest floor. It was all second nature, and Daryl’s shape silhouetted against the infinite green around them had changed a bit, but it all still felt the same - and it brought back a small sense of peace that helped Rick re-anchor himself. Daryl turned to check on him after a few minutes, probably half expecting the older man to be struggling after so long away from the woods, only to see he wasn’t more than a step behind him. The quiet look of contentment that brought to his face made joy bleed through Rick’s own, and he let a small knowing smile be his only reply. Nothing changed in White Oak, especially in the swamp.

Following someone smaller than them made it a little harder to navigate through the thick brush, but luckily they didn’t have to go far. “There it is!” Maggie said in a stage-whisper so loud Rick would’ve laughed if his attention hadn’t been caught by the remains of what used to be a shed not 15 feet ahead the them. It was definitely a part of the property, they couldn’t be more than 100 yards from the treeline, and the majority of the shed was in pieces that had been overtaken by the swamp over the years. It was impossible to tell how old the wreckage was, or what had caused it to collapse - vandalism, a storm, or just the passage of time - but the most prominent feature was the single wall that still stood tall and proud. As they came closer to the structure, it became more and more apparent that the wall shouldn’t have still been standing, there was nothing holding it up but empty air and the feeble posts that connected the planks together.

Maggie brought them around the structure to what used to be the exterior of the shed, and the chipped and straining white paint looked newer than the the structure, yet still old enough to feel years of humidity and weathering that discolored it in areas. But clear as day, in bold black lettering sprayed so fresh the paint still looked glossed and unmarred, were four lines of haphazard text. All lowercase with a single comma as punctuation. A continued thought that never ended.

 _speak the_  
_truth, even if_  
_your voice_ _  
_ shakes

It didn’t speak of the devil, or witchcraft, or even the Lwa as Rick had feared. It didn’t name anyone or point fingers, and wasn’t cursing or threatening harm, but the words still shocked him cold and hit him hard. Somewhere deep in his chest that ached and radiated guilt, and shame, and something horribly bright that might’ve been hope. Hope for himself and his situation, that there was a chance for redemption and relief. The words couldn’t have been meant for him specifically but Rick felt like they impacted him personally - more than he ever could have imagined before entering the swamp. That was probably the point of them, so open-ended and vague, the truth could’ve been anything. Everyone had their own personal truth they were keeping inside of them, and in the end it didn’t matter what the words were meant for when they were written - this would rattle anyone who felt like they had something to hide. And in a small town like White Oak, everyone was guilty. No wonder everyone was whispering about it behind closed doors.

If the silence beside him was anything to go by, Daryl was feeling the impact just as deeply as he was.

“They ain’t so scary,” Maggie said after a few moments, spooked more by her imagination than the writing on the wall. “Dunno wha’ it even means. What’s _the truth?"_

“Jus’ some high schooler’s doin’, I bet,” Rick said before he could stop himself, the tension in the small canopy beneath the trees so thick it was suffocating - he wanted to ease it but his words were spoken as if they didn’t belong to him. Daryl even looked at him, expression just as blank and uncertain as Rick felt - like someone had scooped out his insides and was waiting for him to acknowledge it. “Trying to rile up the town, scare people.”

“Inta doin’ what?” Daryl asked, muttered so low Rick almost thought he didn’t mean for anyone to hear him. But he was still watching Rick, and both knew something was going on - but Rick had high doubts it had anything to do with _witches_ , or Voodou. It felt more like everyone around them was hiding something, and Rick had just been too wrapped up in Daryl Dixon and what the other man was keeping from him to see that he was being left out of something big. It probably wasn’t all connected, but the offset of balance couldn’t be a coincidence. Too many things were piling up around them; the hauntings turned violent, the swamp claiming the plantation houses, the deadness of the Dixon lot, the fires, the secrets whispered everywhere. This message was meant for the town and everyone in it; hoping that one person would be brave enough to speak when everyone else was too scared.

But what could be so horrible that the entire town would try to bury it? So deep it was consuming them until it rotted the land from the inside out.

And who wrote the words?

\--

The drive back to the Greene farm from White Oak cemetery wasn’t more than 15 minutes, mostly back roads that were more gravel than dirt and kicked up bits of rock as the car sped down them. The constant clinking against the undercarriage created enough of a sound barrier that Rick felt he could strike up a conversation Maggie wouldn’t remember word for word.

“So I might’ve done somethang dumb,” he started out, and honestly that probably wasn’t his best choice of words but it got Daryl’s attention pretty damn quick. He could feel those pale blue eyes burning holes in the side of his face as he kept an eye on the road, knowing how easy it would be for a kid to dart out of the forest and he wouldn’t see them before they were in front of him. He couldn’t count how many times he and Shane had almost been clipped by a car on their bikes as kids. “I went to the county sheriff station yesterday.”

“...why?” Daryl asked after a beat of silence, his own voice lowered so the gravel covered his tones as well.

“It’s what I wanted ta talk to you about last weekend,” Rick said in not quite a whisper. “There’s somethang else weird going on - that happened years ago. A lot of shit burned down in the 80s and a lot of the facts don’ add up. I got a bunch of files from Patricia at the station house.”

“I though’ those were fer work,” Daryl muttered, looking perplexed and unsure. He must have seen the files on the Greene’s coffee table when he woke Rick not a few hours before. “...My mama burn’d our house down ‘round then.”

“Yours was jus’ one of a dozen that burned down that year - and the year before, too.”

“I ‘member them,” Daryl muttered, looking lost in thought - probably remembering chasing fire trucks with the other kids in town, or picking through the soldering remains when it was still far too dangerous to do so. “Bad drought tha’ year, I was alw’ys fuckin’ thirsty. Think Merle set a coupl’ of fires jus’ fuckin’ ‘round with his light’r. Anythin’ would go up if ya look’d at it too long.”

“Yeah, well the other thang that caught fire was the old church,” Rick told him gravely.

Daryl made the connection a lot faster than Rick had expected, which honestly felt good to know they were still on the same page no matter the situation. “Shit,” Daryl hissed, rubbing at his mouth in worry and looking away as he pieced things together. “You askin’ ‘bout the church when shit’s happenin’ out there, they gonna think you had somethin’ ta do wit’it.”

“Or that I know somethang - they’ll remember that I’m askin’ about it, at least,” Rick added with a nod. “So whatever it is, whoever wrote the words is gonna know I’m lookin’ inta things - if they don’t already.”

“Patricia like’ta gossip?”

“Nah, she knew somethang was up and it rubbed her wrong, too. Her husband Otis, though, is a little too friendly with folks,” Rick admitted, already feeling a little bad talking bad about a man as sweet as Otis, but he really could let his mouth get away from him when he was talking to others. “I asked him ta keep it to himself, but he might slip up.” Rick chewed his lip, thinking back to Otis watching Captain Donovan grill him and then he recalled just how many people had seen him. He’d even let slip to Donovan that he was looking at the church, and Rick knew nothing about the man - he could be one of those men that had two beers and spilled state secrets for all he knew.

“What,” Daryl said again, more a statement than a question. Knowing the worry etched subtlety into Rick’s face better than anyone.

“The Sheriff and the White Oak Police Captain were having lunch, they saw me too,” Rick told him quietly, knowing it was bad but not quite sure the extent it could be. “And Captain Donovan asked what I was doing, I told him I was investigating the church fire just to give him somethang. I didn’t know it was gonna be that important.” He spared a glance at Daryl as he said the last phrase honestly, fuck he had really dug them in a hole. Everyone knew that Rick was good friends with Daryl, or had been, and though most knew the Dixons were moonshiners he didn’t know how many people connected them with something as outlandish as witchcraft. It had really just been school legends when they were kids that said the backwoods families worshipped Satan. But those kids were grown up now and probably still lived in White Oak, with Rick being gone for so long who was to say that those urban legends hadn’t embedded themselves in the community - and Rick just made them the first most likely suspects along with himself. Seriously, when had the town become so obsessed with _witches_ that even the children knew about it? It was absurd.

“Ain’t nuthin we can do ‘bout it now but keep our heads down,” Daryl muttered as he tore into the flesh on his thumb, words almost lost he spoke them so quiet - thinking about something but not sharing it until he’d put it in order in his head.

Rick just nodded in agreement, keeping his attention back on road in front of them. “We’ll know in the next few days if we’re in trouble.”

The silence wrapped around them inside the car, as heavy as it always was between Rick and Daryl, filled with unspoken things and the constant buzzing of thoughts kept to themselves. Rick missed the comfortable silences, the way he and Daryl could spend all afternoon in the swamp barely exchanging twelve words and still leave with easy smiles on their faces. Somehow it had never felt heavy or stilted, not even when it was the worst of times; the image of Rick and Daryl in reversed positions as the Dixon drove them to Na’ine’s house shedding light on how this confined space could feel instead of the near smothering air of shrouded intentions.

They didn’t used to keep things from each other like this.

Afraid he would soon choke on the thin air inside the cab Rick rolled down all the windows, choosing to ignore that Maggie shifted to the other side of the backseat to lean against the door without her seatbelt on - even though he’d specifically told her to strap in. It was enough to lessen the heavy pull of a frown on his face until it wasn’t so tight. The swamp spilled into the car and pushed the silence out as swiftly as it could on the wind, making itself comfortable with the buzzing of bugs and symphony of leaves, accented by the wind whipping by the open windows and the gravel clinking louder against the underbelly of the car. A familiar sound that eased the tension that had built up in his spine and shoulders - like a weight pressing down on him so heavily he could’ve fallen right through the floor.

Out of his peripheral Rick could see the smell of wet earth and Spanish moss flying by on the breeze had calmed Daryl as well, enough for him to curve more in the seat like all his ligaments were melting in the hot Georgia sun - feet up on the dash and arms crossed but utterly at ease for just a moment. The quiet returning to something Rick remembered from years ago. But he felt the moment it shifted.

Daryl had turned to look at him, eyes darting to different features of his face as if assessing something, and that feeling of unspoken words filled the space between them once more - even as it leaked out the windows on the wind. It wouldn’t have been so obvious if Daryl hadn’t continued to look away and then glance back at him; attempting to turn his intense stare to his shoes, out the window, on the road in front of them, but they always darted back to Rick. Magnetic in their persistence, and Rick wanted to tell him to spit it out, say whatever it was that was rattling around inside his head like the tail end of a Diamondback. But Daryl never did.

They pulled into the Greene property without having spoken another word, and Maggie clamored out into the sunshine before the car had even fully stopped in front of their farmhouse.

“I ain’t never goin’ on a car trip wit’ you,” she stated plainly, not even giving an explanation as she shook her head almost in disappointment and then sprinted towards the house. Not waiting on the two men as they took their time getting out of the little four door. _Yeah, I don’t blame you_ , Rick would’ve outright gagged on the silence at her age - but he had been a lot less mature than Maggie Greene.

He must have had a small quirk to his mouth that resembled a smile, because when he looked at Daryl over the hood of the car, the other huffed out his non-laugh through his nose and silently agreed with his sentiment. He was also leaning on the open car-door, thoughts plaguing his senses to the point he didn’t continue moving and Rick mirrored him by not taking his hand off his own open driver’s side door. A quiet unfounded superstition that if they didn’t leave this moment, it would continue on and Daryl could unburden himself of whatever was bothering him. Rick knew it took a while for the hunter to piece together what he wanted to say, but the man had had the entire car ride to put his words together, it was either really important or really painful - or both. Rick’s first instinct was to think to himself that maybe he really didn’t want to know, but it was that kind of thinking that had gotten them into this mess in the first place.

Once Maggie was clearly out of earshot, Rick turned fully to Daryl and leaned on the roof to give him his most undivided attention. He couldn’t tell if this made spitting the words out harder for the younger man, but he certainly got caught in Rick’s own expectant stare and stretched the silence between them as long as an abandoned highway. Rick only waited a few moments, a few pulses of a steady heartbeat even though he could practically hear Daryl’s thundering away in his chest.

“Do you have somethang you want to say?” he finally prodded, careful and even, not letting a lick of insinuation into his statement. Hoping to coax Daryl out of whatever panic he had found himself in. Daryl’s pale blue eyes reflected his scrambling thoughts, slightly wider than usual in the bright sun, and expression so ‘not sure’ it was painful to see - but Rick had a newfound sense of patience and sympathy for the other man. Whatever they were holding back, it was killing them, and he tried to convey as quietly and solidly as he could in his piercing blue stare for Daryl to just speak. _Please_.

“Jus’... wha’ I was gonna say earlier,” Daryl started slow, the words pulled from him stubbornly, and the pause inbetween requiring more prompting.

“Earlier,” Rick clarified, tilting his head in question, the action breaking whatever spell that had this man he’d known for years staring like a deer in the headlights. “At the wall?”

“Nah,” Daryl shook his head, finally stepping away from the car and shutting the door. Rick did the same and rounded the car quickly, keeping the other from walking away and not letting up on his expectant stare. “This mornin’.” Daryl added, fishing for his cigarettes and lighting one up faster than Rick could blink.

“This morning?”

“Don’ usually make house calls f’r no reason,” Daryl quipped without much emotion behind it, his deadpan attempt at humor making Rick frown at him. This wasn’t what he had almost said in the car. “Was comin’ ta tell ya that y’can go back home t’night. Gonna smell somethin’ awful, but it won’ kill ya now.” Rick shoved his hands in his pockets to hide how they were clenching into fists in frustration, and ducked his head down to hide his expression.

“Did it work?” he ground out, keeping his voice clinically even in his disappointment.

“We’ll know ‘n th’mornin’.” Daryl exhaled pale smoke into the bright sunshine, the light catching on it and making it more visible as it shrouded him while Rick’s anger simmered. “I’ll be by then.” Like dipping a hot pan into water any feelings Rick had towards Daryl were drowned by the shock he’d be back in that house - alone, for another night. “Ya c’n tell me if anythin’ was bumpin’ around in the night.”

“Great,” Rick exhaled, eyes darting around at nothing as the horrible weight returned to press down on him and pounded through his head, once again shouldering the secret he’d kept to himself for too fucking long. So long it was even in his dreams away from the house, which meant in the end - he didn’t really know what the thing in his room was doing or not doing, and what was all in his head. He couldn’t even ask Daryl about it without explaining everything, and he didn’t know if he could do that. Not when they were so closed off. Rick realized in that moment that if Daryl had also been about to tell him something important, then hunter had just done the _exact_ same thing only a minute before when he decided to continue to keep things to himself, too.

This was going to kill them.

“You know,” Rick found himself speaking before he could take the words back, Daryl’s pale blue eyes looking up at him - if he still had bangs he would’ve been able to hide behind them and glance between the strands, but nothing was keeping them apart now except for that horrible distance Rick felt in his gut and in his heart. “I… I know it’s on me too,” he continued, finding strength in looking up to meet the other’s gaze, but it also made reality crash down around him harshly. “But we didn’t use to keep things from each other. Not… not things like this.” It wasn’t accusing, not fully, but the observation alone was sobering in a way nothing else had been in a long time. A continuance rang in his head, words like _maybe one day_ , and _whenever you decide to tell me_ but they stayed stuck in his throat, because as he had said - this was on Rick too. And if Rick wasn’t ready to tell Daryl what was going on, then who was he to assume Daryl was any closer? They used to not hesitate, spilled the truth to each other as easily as breathing, barely anything was kept from the other and that was what made the air so clear. Now it was as clouded as the cigarette smoke was making it look, filled with unknown dangers and a storm of self-suffering that just made Rick want to scream. This was on him too.

“Take care of yourself,” Rick told Daryl, stepping back a few paces and releasing him of the burden of conversation. “Wherever it is you go at night.” He knew his worry was bleeding through his expression, and it was near impossible to hold back, so he turned heel and started back towards the house to gather his things. Hoping Daryl would follow him, grab his shoulder and twist him around until he could look the man in the eyes and finally break that barrier - because then maybe Rick could do the same.

But the sound of Daryl’s motorcycle followed Rick into the house, the screen door doing nothing to hide how it sped away from the Greene farm as fast as it could.

\--

The house reeked of iron.

Rick had choked on the smell as he had entered the house, eyes watering to the point he had to dart back outside to breathe. He had ended up entering through the mudroom at the back after the front door had failed, opening all the windows in the kitchen but not daring to do the same throughout the house. Not yet. The kitchen had always been a safe haven, whether it be because it was the most lived in room of the house - or because something had been protecting it - he didn’t know. But Rick made camp there with his county sheriff files and didn’t leave the entire afternoon. Drowning in dates and reports to help forget about the broken thing that resided between him and Daryl Dixon. It worked until the sun went down, and he had to return upstairs to sleep for the night.

The fact he could barely breathe in the hallways was actually comforting, everything seemed cleansed and overwhelmingly chemical to the point all supernatural elements were smothered out. He shouldn’t have been surprised that there was still remnants of blue color in corners of the halls, or stuck in the crevices of the hardwood, but it was still surprising to see them. Maybe he would still get to see Daryl scrubbing the last bits of blue out of the floor, because his Grandmother was not going to let her house be covered in specks of electric blue like someone had spread glitter up and down her halls.

He had to quickly usher out thoughts of Daryl on his hands and knees, sweaty and scrubbing the hardwood as roughly as his thick arms would allow, and instead continued on up to the second floor.

It was just as hard to breathe up there, condensed with stale air and the dense stench of iron that seemed to rise with the heat. Rick had made it to his room, which was no better, and shut the door before going to the window and opening it just to breathe fresh air. As soon as he did it he regretted it, not sure if opening windows would undo everything Daryl had done in the previous days, but if the redneck had said it was safe to come home he had to know he would be airing out certain areas - right? He wasn’t going to let Rick die by heavy metal poisoning, and the deputy had kept all the other areas of the house just as soaked in the chemical after effects as they had been before. It would be fine. He would be fine. It was just one night.

As long as it kept the thing in his grandmother’s room detained until morning, everything would be fine.

\--

The dream started as it always did. Soft and filled with muted light, warm in a way Rick missed so badly his heart hurt with each thud in his chest. His dream Daryl kissed him awake so carefully, a mirror of a memory Rick had tried so hard to forget and never knew he longed to remember, a moment that he could never truly bury. His one real weakness was the constant reminder of what Daryl Dixon was, and what he could’ve been, which was why he always let the dreams begin this way. Rick knew now he could stop them at any time, and would before it got to the line he had drawn in his mind, but until then he couldn’t bring himself to do so - it just felt so good to kiss Daryl, even if it wasn’t really the version of Daryl he wanted.

This dream wasn’t as bright as the past few, the faint light flickering like candles near an open window, casting stark shadows and bathing everything in sepia tones - but the shadows crept in from the edges of the room, pitch black and suffocating. He mildly wondered if it was because of the bluestones making it harder for whatever it was to reach him, or if it was trying to hide something in the corners he could no longer see. But all of that faded from thought as dream-Daryl shifted over him, as he had done many times before, straddling Rick’s lap and fitting to every curve of his body so wonderfully. Melting into every crevasse and the weight alone was so comforting, so familiar Rick was lost in the slow, languid kisses for many long moments.

Until he saw the darkness was coming closer. Was the dream fading?

It was a serious wake-up call that this dream could still be something he didn’t just make up in his own mind, it could’ve been created by something else in the room with him, and while Rick had shied away from the spirit or creature and ultimately feared the idea that it invaded his dreams - there had to be a reason. If it was… smitten with him, or whatever else Rick worried it could be, then why would it continue to use Daryl in his dreams? If it was trying to tell him something, and just going the absolutely _worst_ way about it, then what was the _point?_

With great difficulty, Rick pulled back enough to release himself from the kiss, his roaming hands finding holds on dream-Daryl’s neck and face that stopped the vision from going back in for more. He looked confused in a dazed sort of way, as if he himself had been shaken from a dream he didn’t want to wake from, and it was sort of adorable in the worst of ways because Rick couldn’t deny him another sweet kiss when Daryl leaned in for more. A small voice in his mind firmly reminding him that this wasn’t his Daryl giving him the strength to break the kiss again.

“Why are you here?” Rick managed to say once he finally found the words, they felt heavy and difficult on his tongue - and hard to piece together. That wasn’t really what he wanted to ask. _Who are you? What are you trying to tell me?_

_Why Daryl?_

That was really what he wanted to know. No matter what the spirit or thing wanted, why would it do this to him? Give him endless tastes of the one thing he wasn’t allowed to have? Was it some sort of cruel trick, a way to worm inside of Rick’s brain and control him from the inside out? Daryl had always warned him that nothing could possess you unless you gave consent, permission for it to enter your body, and Rick had stopped these dream versions at every turn. Could it be something that sinister, and it was just persistent? Rick didn’t think so, but the cop in him knew he shouldn’t rule out the possibility just because this version of Daryl on top of him felt too good and too familiar and too perfectly heartbreaking to be something evil.

His dream-Daryl was staring at him in confusion again, a different kind of confusion that reminded Rick of when they were younger before the emotion began to be paired with hostility and defensiveness - it made his face looks strangely soft and years younger than Rick knew him to be. Like Rick’s memories were bleeding through and remembering times when Daryl had stared at him the same way, not sure how the other boy was real and not a figment of his imagination. Rick always used to feel the same way about him. Had they really just always been that blind to each other?

It didn’t answer him, eyes flickering up and down Rick’s face, his own rough and calloused fingers coming up to Rick’s jaw and thumbing at his red lips, raw and kiss-swollen from Daryl’s ministrations as well as the rough stubble surround his mouth. But it didn’t hurt, and Rick wasn’t sure how he knew what he looked like to the other man, but dismissed it as an abnormality from the dream and instead tried to suppress a laugh. His mouth turning up in a half smile that moved with Daryl’s fingers and that seemed to please the dream-state of the other man more than anything. Confusion fading and a quiet sort of happiness replacing it that Rick hadn’t seen in a long time. He missed that content look so much it pulled at his heart painfully.

“Yeah, I guess’d that much,” he said aloud, though he wasn’t sure why, the comfortable moment wrapping around them so warmly he almost didn’t want to keep asking questions. He knew this dream-version of Daryl could talk, so why wasn’t it? “But really, why are you -” Daryl silenced him with more soft kisses, peppering them slow and sweet and ever so distracting. “Daryl, stop. Listen, I know this is a dream and you’re not really here.” His dream-Daryl didn’t seem to agree, opting to just kiss anything within reach while Rick kept trying to talk. “B-but, I need to know if this is me or not? Am I making you, or... _god-damn_ that’s good. Fuck, o-or is somethang else?” He wasn’t sure how he was stringing together coherent sentences when the other man was nibbling on his jaw and pressing kisses in the spots he knew to be Rick’s weak points. Places that would’ve set his blood on fire a lifetime ago, and was starting to affect his ability to speak.

But for all of Daryl’s ministrations he couldn’t shake the reminder that he might not be alone in his fantasies.

_Why won’t you tell me if something else is here?_

“What’re you tryin’ ta tell me?” he breathed, words near a whisper, all spoken in one exhale as he melted beneath his dream-Daryl’s touch. His skin and bones turned to a fluid, burning thing that conformed to every sharp edge and contour of Daryl’s heavy form over him - and fuck it felt so good. It had his thoughts and reasoning fizzled out to the very furthest reaches of his consciousness. Or unconsciousness, he supposed. Because that’s what it all really boiled down to wasn’t it? That thought was delayed by several deep, panting breaths and rapid heartbeats, coming to him in some semblance of clarity long after the words had left his mouth. In the end, it didn’t really matter all the much if this dream-Daryl was something created by a ghost that liked him a little too much, or if it was just another manifestation of Rick’s on longing for the other man and what was happening in his dreams was really just his own making. Because it all had to mean _something_ , otherwise why would it be occurring every single night he slept in that house?

With strength he didn’t know he possessed, Rick gently ceased Daryl’s ministrations and put some space between himself and the younger man that burned as hot as a furnace. But the dream couldn’t last forever, and he needed some kind of answer. This couldn’t keep happening to him every night. Whatever he needed to know, whether it be from the spirit haunting his walls or his own mind screaming at him in the only way it could, he needed to know _now_. Before his Daryl - the real Daryl, out there in the swamp somewhere doing Lwa knew what - found out what was really going on in his bedroom.

It all had to _mean_ something.

“Don’ make me stop this, I need you t’talk to me,” Rick told him, scolded him, and between one heartbeat and the next he felt the tension surround them. As quick as a room dimming when the sun disappeared behind the clouds. It thickened the air, and made what Rick could see in front of him sharper and more drastic. Shadows no longer slowly creeping forward but halted in their place, so stark in contrast the lines between visible and not could cut glass. And something in Daryl’s eyes sparked fear, fear of Rick ending the dream or something else there was no way to tell, but something told Rick it was a bit of both. He shook his head minutely, mouth parted like he was going to speak but no words came out, and Rick felt a little ridiculous for a moment once it hit him maybe this time Daryl _couldn’t_ speak to him. He might as well have been asking a dog if Timmy fell down the well.

Daryl’s expression was near begging, something stretched and panicked, and it brought back memories of the worst times with the Dixon. Life altering things, cursed things, experiences filled with blood and pain and death and Rick knew he was treading into a dangerous territory but he had to _know_. He’d been so scared of his dreams and the thing in his room that left chills coating the bruises on his skin, but he’d never even thought to think that maybe whatever was doing this could be motivated by fear as well. It just didn’t make sense, if it was just as scared of explaining what was going on then _why was it using Daryl?_

In short, skittish movements that gave away how much he was trying to not shake, Daryl closed the space again with only slight hesitation and darting eyes asking for permission. Seeming to only be interested in one thing, and Rick knew he could handle a quid pro quo if he actually got some answers out of this dream version of the redneck, and so far he hadn’t spoken words but his actions alone had told Rick volumes of what might be going on. Much like the real Daryl, and that alone was comforting enough for Rick to nod minutely and let Daryl kiss him again. It wasn’t a soft kiss this time, or short by any means. It was desperate and deep and searching, and Rick almost choked on his surprise as Daryl seemed to try and crawl inside of him in his efforts. But not just in a metaphorical way, waxing poetic on how close they tried to get when the two men were kissing, this time Daryl was latching on and not letting go. As soon as Rick started to struggle for breath he pushed on the other’s shoulders to break the kiss again, and that was when Daryl sunk his teeth into his tongue.

The sharpness startled Rick into trying to pull back, which only made Daryl clamp down harder, holding them together and still seared at the lips. Hot, metallic blood began to fill his mouth and escape the edges of his lips to dribble down his chin, and Rick was trying very hard not to _panic_. But he was also half a second away from punching Daryl in the gut to get him _off_ , fist already clenching and pulling back when his other hand - which had been fisted in Daryl’s shirt and trying to push the other off of him - gave way and went through air. Daryl’s body disappearing like a puff of cold smoke.

Rick knew what was before him before he even opened his eyes, not knowing when he had closed them or if that was even _possible_ in a dream, but when he did the last of the breath he couldn’t catch left him completely.

It wasn’t Daryl before him anymore.

It was flowing and dark and just as familiar, tall and hulking as it leered over him, and Rick had to fight not to scream. The shapeless thing that had haunted his nightmares for years after he had left White Oak now filled the vacated space. The thing that had chased him through the woods, that had come at Moreau’s beck and call, the thing that had nearly killed him now sat there with tendrils spilling over the sides of the bed and disappearing in the dark - as if it filled the entire room. But that wasn’t possible! “N-No, no no you’re not real. I-It’s gone. Daryl _killed it-_ ” Rick was in near stammering hysterics as he scrambled as far back as he could and his back hit the headboard of his bed. But the thing didn’t let him go too far, lurking forward with broken, jagged movements that stuttered and flowed in horrifying ways. Twisted, boneless movements that made his insides lurch and bile fill his throat.

“Not in your _dreams_ , Ricky,” the thing spoke with a twisted smile and teeth like jagged black glass. The thing had never spoke before, and Rick could faintly remember that _voice_ but that just solidified in his mind that this wasn’t real. Couldn’t be real. This was all in his head, piecing together bits of every nightmare he actually lived into something that would shake him to his core. To wake him up. _Fuck, just WAKE UP_ ! _It’s not worth this!_ Nothing was worth this, Rick could practically feel it’s claws scraping against his bones already. “What are you really afraid of, Rick?”

Oh, the reminder of the cold, jagged thing ripping through his chest and lungs wasn’t enough?

“Nooo,” the thing spoke long and dragged out, almost in a sing-song way, as it drifted closer to him in constantly shifting movements like wisps of smoke. “No, you brought me here. You’re afraid of something _worse_.”

Nothing could possibly be worse.

“You weren’t _really_ afraid of the Daryl you created, of what was going on in your bedroom, and you don’t fear that _your_ Daryl is ignoring what lurks on the upper floors of the house. You made that perfectly clear.” Rick had been hiding what had been going on at every turn, telling himself that it was to get Daryl to focus on what was harming his grandmother, maybe harboring a slight shame that he didn’t want the other to know about. But there really wasn’t anything else behind it.

The thing growled low and dark, the deep base of a thunderstorm as if they were in the middle of the dark clouds themselves, and Rick could feel it reverberate through his chest. Stealing his breath as his vision went white and unfocused in fear - he wasn’t even sure his heart was beating anymore. “What do I have to do to make you _see!?_ ” It closed the space between them so fast and sharp Rick didn’t even have time to blink before he was staring into the dark, soulless caverns where it’s eyes were supposed to be. “To make up your damn mind for _once_ in your life! _What do you want!_ ” Rick could barely comprehend, his mind racing at a blinding speed. He didn’t know why it was yelling at him, what he had so obviously _missed_ because it was now demanding answers to questions Rick had wanted to ask not a few moments before. What the fuck was going on!?

_What do you want!_

He could still taste blood in his mouth, it stuck to his lips and his chin, stained his teeth, and it was all he could focus on while staring into the grotesque face of the thing he had never hoped to see again in his life.

_What do you want._

To wake up, please wake the fuck up. Please…

**_What do you want._ **

He wanted...

Rick hadn’t really thought much about what he wanted over the past few years, it had only started to break the surface recently, and even then it was more a mental struggle he never voiced aloud. He hadn’t wanted to come to White Oak for his Grandpappy’s funeral, but he had anyway. He hadn’t wanted to see Daryl again while he was there, but he did when it became necessary to ask the other for help. Fuck he hadn’t wanted to ask the Dixon for help _at all_ , but he swallowed his pride and had done it because he needed to.

He hadn’t wanted to forgive Daryl, or like him at all for that matter, but the two of them just being around each other again had forced his hand - and made him want a whole new array of things that he just wasn’t going to get. And he had wanted to accept that, had even tried to, it was just so hard when Daryl was always there and proving his every instinct wrong. Proving without a doubt that it didn’t _matter_ what Rick wanted, and really hadn’t that always been the way of things? Rick was just too stubborn to not keep pushing, even when he shouldn’t.

He didn’t want to need Daryl; in any way, shape, or form. But life wasn’t fair sometimes.

So what did he _want?_ He wanted the push and pull to stop. He wanted to stop hating Daryl one minute and loving him so much it hurt the next. He wanted to stop thinking about the ‘what if’s and ‘maybe’s, and he wanted to stop worrying that he’d have to be the adult and push the other away if he was indeed trying to test the waters again. He wanted to stop _missing_ Daryl when the other was _right fucking there_ and within reach for the first time in six years. He wanted to stop longing for what he no longer had. He wanted to stop regretting, pining, hurting so much because of Daryl fucking Dixon and the curse that tore them apart.

But more than anything, he just wanted everything to go back to how it was. He wanted to take those six years back, and either fight harder for the man he loved, or let him go and not have to be in this situation any longer. Because he couldn’t have both, it was too maddening.

He just wanted Daryl. His Daryl.

He wanted to feel whole again.

The dark storm clouds before him faded to that endless blue sky Rick so loved to stare at, get lost in and could have happily drowned in if words hadn’t accompanied them. He blinked at the intrusion to his own mess of thoughts that had been buzzing about so loud it was deafening, and he noticed the thing was no longer there. The dream-Daryl that had been kissing him every night for weeks was no longer there either, but it was Daryl who had returned. A younger Daryl, hair longer and curling around his ears and the nape of his neck, only a little smaller in build and his face not as angular, an exact image of the Daryl Rick had driven all night for when they were 18 and so in love. But that panicked, strained look was back in his eyes - now an exact image and no longer just reminiscent - and his voice sounded layered and far away as if through TV static.

“‘m sorry,” he tried to say, Southern drawl crackled with white noise but unmistakably higher in pitch and echoing from ages and memories ago. “M’sorry I couldn’t give ya that, bu’ I need’d ta hold on and th’s is what ya respon’d to. I couldn’ let i’t win.” The dream-Daryl seemed to know his voice was far away, looking as if he was shouting the words but was still so faint, and there were hints of other voices echoing his - this wasn’t Daryl. Rick needed to remember that, this was something else, but it really was trying to tell him something.

“It?” he prompted, not trusting himself to speak more, and Daryl nodded at him - squaring his broad shoulders as he stayed planted to the bed with his hands fisted in the sheets like he’d fly off at a moment’s notice.

“Spirits will say anythin’ ta get released!” He said with emphasis, and it echoed from something the same boy had said years ago - why it was so dangerous channeling instruments like Ouija boards had become common - it let things into your home and by-passed the invitation stage too easily. They could pretend to be anyone, and you wouldn’t know the truth until it was too late. Spirits will say anything to get released.

 _Kind of like you_.

Rick wanted to say it, kept his mouth firmly shut, but it must have been plain on his face - or the ever shifting membranes of the dream made it so he couldn’t hide his thoughts - because the young dream-Daryl shook his head stubbornly and continued on. “I don’ want anythin’ from you! But if tha’ thing found you it would do something far more enticing than kissing on you to get your consent!”

“Consent?” Rick parroted, not liking how heavy and dark it felt on his tongue. Or how it brought the sickening feelings he’d been trying to ignore to the surface, and he became even _more_ aware how this wasn’t Daryl. He hadn’t asked for these dream visits, he had no way of really stopping them, and this thing wanted to talk about consent? _What are you really afraid of?_

The heavy feeling that made the word stick in his throat was the same sensation as when he mentioned another word that haunted him. Cursed.

His young-Daryl shook his head again, pale blue eyes boring into his own with such intensity it was like looking into the sun. “No, not cursed - possessed! It’s so much worse, a curse may stick with you forever, but you don’t know how long forever is until you know a possession. I know you fear it, I‘ve seen it in you like a black stain that’s spreading, and you know what it can do! What it did to Ryan, what it could have done to any of you in that clearing!” A shiver ran down Rick’s spine as vivid memories of Ryan’s manic smile, dead eyes, hands around Rick’s throat until his vision blurred at the edges. And he was afraid, more so than he had felt in a long time. A new fear that chilled his insides until he trembled with it. “See - you feel it now, but it’s always been there. The fear that everything isn’t what it seems, people you know and love can suddenly not be themselves - especially after what I did to you.”

 _No._ “You’re not Daryl.” Rick had to say it out loud, firm despite his shaking - this young, gorgeous version of the man he loved was no longer slurring his words in that backwoods Georgian drawl. Rick couldn’t even tell if there was an accent, his mind was whirling with information and the new threat that had sunk it’s teeth into his chest violently. He had to get out, he had to tell Daryl. He knew what the thing on the ground floor was after, and if the spirit causing his dreams was this upset and urgent then it wasn’t gone. The bluestones hadn’t killed it - just pissed it off.

“Listen to me!” Daryl’s hands had grabbed Rick’s shoulders and held him tight, barely a breath between them, and Rick felt something ice cold begin to slither into his bed. “You can’t let it out! It’s trying so hard to grasp at anything living, and it will do everything it can-”

It was water, chilled like a stream in winter, and it was flooding the space masquerading as his room. Swift, cold and black as night - it soaked the sheets and licked at Rick’s skin until he was scrambling back as best he could. His back hitting the headboard and giving him nowhere to go with Daryl boxing him in, the other’s hands still grasping his shoulders with an iron force that began to blossom with pain. No matter how much Rick tired to shake him, Daryl held steadfast, unblinking pale eyes locked on his face and trying to will him to agree through desperate looks alone. Rick didn’t like the look painted on his Daryl’s face, it didn’t belong there.

“Let go!” Rick shouted back at him, interrupting his pleading that hadn’t really stopped, but Rick had been too focused on the still steadily rising water to hear him.

“Tell me you won’t let it out!”

“LET GO!” The ice-like water had risen past his waist faster than Rick anticipated, seizing up his torso as it climbed higher and making it hard to draw breath. The panic was blinding when the black water started lapping at his neck. “ _Please_ , Daryl! We’re going to drown!”

“‘M not gonna let ya drown, Rick.” _There_. That sounded like Daryl, his Daryl, and it startled Rick so suddenly that he froze - until then they are both plunged under the churning darkness.

Rick couldn’t breathe. Daryl’s hands had left him and now there wasn’t a thing around him but the nothingness and the cold dark. A blackness so thick Rick couldn’t tell which way was up for long stretches of time that feel like an eternity, his lungs burning in his chest as he held back a scream, there was no air left to do so anyway. Above him he could make out a faint lightness in the dark, watery and misshapen, and he prayed it was the moon but no matter how hard he fought and swam he couldn’t reach the top of the water. Every limb was heavy as a cinder block and impossible to move, and the moon didn’t grow any closer. He exhausted himself to the point all he could do was reach up and hope it touched air.

Then a warm hand grasped his wrist, tight and familiar, and pulled him up until he broke the surface.

\--

Rick sat straight up in his bed, gasping for breath and a scream in his ears that he didn’t immediately recognize as his own, a sheen of cold sweat soaking his sheets and clothes and making him tremble where he sat. His breath escaped him in pants of oxygen that misted in a thick fog in front of his face, the entire room the temperature of an ice box with crystallization on the windows to match. Painting the glass in spiraling designs of ice that showed no signs of melting despite the warmth outside that steamed the exterior. The window was tightly shut against the summer night air, and Rick remembered with vivid clarity that he had opened it to let the coppery stench out before he fell asleep.

But he didn’t dare get out of bed to open it, not for the rest of the night until the first rays of the Georgia sun shone through the frosted patterns on his windows. He had much to think about in that time, knowing Daryl would be there when the sun fully rose, and that he had many things to tell him.

Rick just didn’t know where to begin.

\--

“I jus’ don’t get it,” Daryl grumbled for the tenth time that morning, his head bent over a book as he sat in his usual spot at the kitchen island. He looked more like he was supporting himself with one arm as his hand raked through his short hair and his whole body slumped in exhaustion. He had appeared dead on his feet from the moment Rick had opened the front door to greet him, in the same clothes from the day before with a bit more wear and tear - indicating he’d been up and around all night, again. Rick would’ve jested that Daryl was actually sleepwalking if it hadn’t been for the abrupt stop that had sent the usually graceful hunter stumbling.

Daryl didn’t even have to walk ten feet into the house before he knew the bluestones hadn’t done a damn thing to the spirit down the hall.

After that, he’d just been pissed off - another symptom of his all-nighter, Rick could always tell when the other was dead tired when they were kids. He got really cranky and short-tempered. As adults, that just seemed to be all the time, but Rick really didn’t have much room to talk. He just watched as Daryl scribbled new symbols and runes on the double French doors, picked through the stacks of books on the kitchen table and start flipping through them with aggressive vigor, and accepted the coffee Rick had made to aide them both since this was not going to be an easy day. He’d made a double batch to boot, they were going to need every drop.

He hadn’t even really thought about what he was doing while Daryl was scouring his books and chewing on a pencil absent-mindedly, the hunter having commandeered one of Rick’s notebooks he kept on him when he was working to write down anything useful. He just watched the other work, filling his coffee and answering him when the other needed a soundboard, and milled over what had happened the night before. Knowing he needed to speak up, but still stuck on how to even begin.

“Look like ya didn’ sleep much,” Daryl mentioned after a particular long stretch of silence, startling Rick from his deep thoughts he’d gotten lost in. It took a second for the words to register, and once they did Rick just glared at the younger man in a pointed way. Really? He thought _Rick_ looked tired?

“You look in a mirror lately?” Rick jibed back, gulping down more coffee to help snap his brain awake. He needed to be more alert if they were going to start picking at each other this early in the morning. “Or smell yourself?” the hunter reeked of sweat, swamp water, and something Rick recognized all too well as gun powder. However, at the mention Daryl lifted an arm to sniff himself and Rick saw something else, a bandage on the underside of his arm, taped off but with patches of blood and something black bleeding through the gauze. “The hell is that?”

“Oh, got inked up las’ night,” Daryl muttered as if it was something he did all the time - and for all Rick knew it _was_ \- crinkling his nose at what must have been an unpleasant mix of blood, ink, and B.O. before turning back to his book in front of him.

“Should it still be covered like that?”

“Prob’bly not.” Daryl read a few more lines before glancing up at Rick to see him still staring at him, and even diverted his eyes once more that didn’t last longer than a second. “What?”

“Can I see it?” Rick asked with a small smirk quirking behind his coffee mug rim.

“Ain’t nuthin’, bunch’a us got it las’ night. Even Merle,” he waved it off, although he finally left his book alone on the countertop to peel back the bandage for Rick. Beneath was an inked outline of what looked to be a demon or devil, much like the tattoo on his back, although the style was much simpler and the wings were outspread.

“Looks more like a logo, or a brand,” he mentioned offhandedly.

“Kind of is.” Wow, Daryl was sure chatty that morning. His conversation killers were almost impressive. Rick took a long drag of his coffee while Daryl recovered the tattoo until a thought struck him, the young Dixon had mentioned that they were going to Mayfield often.

“God, tell me y’all didn’t join a gang or somethang-”

“Stop bein’ stupid,” Daryl growled at him, though it was a little playful and a smirk flirted at the side of his mouth as he glanced back at Rick. The deputy couldn’t help but match it a little, something light and warm fluttering in his chest at the sight. “Firs’ I’m a witch, then I’m a gang-banger-”

“Don’t forget train-robber.” Rick joked back, Daryl huffing his non-laugh in response, and the silence that settled between them was back to that comfortable one that Rick craved every second of. It stretched long and pleasant between them, like a long stretch of summer road with not a soul in sight, and even Daryl seemed to get lost in it. He tried to go back to his books, even went as far as to pick up the pencil like he had found something to jot down in the little notebook at his right, but something else had caught hold of his thoughts and wasn’t letting go. He stared into space for quite a few minutes, his careful pondering interrupting the silence as it filled with unspoken words, which in turn made Rick once again drudge up everything he’d been thinking about since he’d awoken in the early hours of the morning. But the noise in his head got to be too much for Rick to stay quiet, and he was tired of thinking about it.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Rick told Daryl, mimicking what the other had said to him not a few days ago.

“Lot ta think about,” Daryl said cryptically, but Rick’s words had gained the other’s undivided attention once more - and this time Daryl didn’t look away. Apparently, Rick was the thing he had been thinking so hard about. Maybe what he had said the day before, when they parted at the Greene house had actually registered in the hunter. “Rick?” Or maybe he wanted to finally say whatever had been eating at him, much like Rick wanted to, and they could both share whatever secrets they were keeping. Neither were really ones to get the ball rolling in a situation like this, Rick personally was better at coaxing the truth out of _other_ people, but Daryl - as always - was an enigma that he could not crack. Had no sway over, no matter how badly he wanted to. “Rick. Rick Grimes.” his full name made Rick blink and focus on Daryl who was still watching him carefully. “You got somethin’ you wanna tell me?”

It’s not lost on either of them that Rick had said the same thing the day before. It was the closest thing they were going to get to bringing up the subjects they refused to speak of, and more progress than had been spoken aloud since they had agreed to stay civil - after Daryl had warned him their emotions were making the thing in the house stronger. This time it seemed it was Rick’s turn.

“You know the house is full of ghosts, right?” Words stuck to his tongue like tar, fumbled to align with his thoughts, and that was the first thing that came to mind - as dumb as it sounded as soon as he spoke them into the quiet. But Daryl didn’t roll his eyes or sneer at him, just nodded like Rick had asked if it might rain when clouds hung over their heads. Rick meant ghosts beyond what had holed itself up in his Grandparent's bedroom wing, and he was glad it didn’t need further explanation than that. He took a deep breath and let it out through his nose before he began again.

“Well, one has been… visiting me, at night.” Keeping his intense stare on his coffee mug, Rick let the words build upon each other, spoke them as they came to him, instead of pondering and choosing them carefully - which might have been his first mistake. “In my dreams.” he clarified, and chanced a glance at Daryl across the kitchen island but was only met with a dead quiet pause, and a look on the hunter’s face that he couldn’t quite decipher.

“What?” Daryl clipped, in the same way that Rick was all too familiar with. This was about to go very wrong if he didn’t explain himself faster than Daryl could piece things together himself - and Daryl was fucking _smart_ \- so he barreled on without any further preamble.

“I didn’t know what it wanted until last night, it was trying to warn me - _us_ , warn us - about the thing down here. It said it’s trying to possess someone, that it wants itself out more badly than we do.” Daryl’s pencil snapped in half, crushed in one hand and Rick stopped talking immediately - but he didn’t even have to finish speaking to realize that he’d lost Daryl. The redneck wasn’t listening to him, and if he was it was being cataloged far back in his mind to be looked over later, because something else was front and center and pissing him off so much his nostrils flared. The careful, guarded look might as well have been etched in stone, because the hunter wasn’t giving him one inch of what he was thinking beyond the anger that was leaking out of his very pores.

“How long?” he said after only a few beats of silence, before Rick could start again.

“What?”

“How long’s it been goin’ on?” Rick had dreaded this part. It was one thing to have been lying to Daryl the entire time they had been ‘working together’, but it was another thing to actually say it.

“...Since I got here.” Daryl’s eyes blazed at the statement. “Well, since we started investigatin’ the spirit in Ganma’s room,” Rick told him as even and matter-of-factly as he could, trying to keep the other calm with the tone of his voice since the words were only going to add fuel to the fire. “Like I said, I didn’t understand the dream until recently. The ghost, or whatever, never really talked with me before we just-” he cut himself off and let what he was about to reveal turn to ash in his mouth, _fuck_ this was why he always thought about what he wanted to say before he said it. Once he started telling the truth it was hard to not let it snowball out of control.

“Just _what_?” Daryl demanded, and Rick couldn’t manage to find words. He knew was gaping like a fish out of water, and Daryl grew too impatient for him to find a way to say things gently. “Wha’ does it look like? Someone we know?” Rick barely got to tick his head a bit to the side in a gesture that was a slight nod, open his mouth again to answer, before Daryl cut him off once more. “ _Damnit_ Rick it was tryin’ ta get’ya t’let yer guard down! If ya know it’s shape then ya let’it in an’ don’ ask questions, like’a _fuckin’-_ ” he let out a frustrated sound and looked about 2 seconds from reaching across the island and strangling him. “Why wouldn’t ya _tell_ me-”

Rick sat there, powerless, as he watched everything start to click into place in Daryl’s head. Fast and precise and visible on his face. That stone facade shattered the instant he’d figured out why Rick hadn’t told him, and each tick of information sparked something in Rick’s chest as Daryl looked more and more horrified. And angry. He had no way of knowing how much Daryl figured out, so Rick just had to assume he knew _all of it_. That it was Daryl he saw in his dreams, that they didn’t speak because they were doing _other_ things, things that would have definitely made Rick keep his guard down that first time it occurred. Maybe even guessed that Rick had let it kept happening for his own selfish reasons. Would he blame Rick for that? Be disgusted by it? Feel violated just as Rick had many nights in a row? Shame and guilt must have been plain on Rick’s face because it only made the other’s reaction that much worse.

Daryl’s barstool screeched as he shoved back from the counter and got up to take a few steps back, breathing harsh and hot, the redneck not even able to form words in that moment. He just began to pace violently, sharp turns to retrace his angry steps the only indication that he wasn’t about to round the island and slam Rick’s head against the countertop. But when he did finally find what he wanted to say, every syllable was clipped, sharp, and made impact like bullets. “Hold on, lemme process this,” he growled out, his hands that had been making aborted motions in his rage now aiding his words, indicating the wheels turning in his head. “-for _weeks_ , you’v’ been ‘visit’d’ at night by somethin’ tha’ looks like me, it _lays hands on you_ , and ya don’ think ta TELL ME A’BOUT IT!”

“I didn’t think it mattered that much!” Rick shouted back, standing up as well and starting to round the island on his own. “I needed you focused on the thing down here, that’s what’s important - and, they were just _weird_ , really vivid dreams that I’d _rather not_ think about in the daylight. How was I t’know they were connected?!”

“When ya wake up with _fuckin’ bruises_ on yer hi-!” He choked on the last word, almost didn’t finish saying it, “hips,” and that last little piece Rick had thought he’d already figured out fell into place and stunned him. He looked so… angry, more horrified than angry, and it bled through a look of betrayal. Rick knew he shouldn’t have hid this part from Daryl, but it was just so hard to look at him those first few days after what he’d gotten up to with his image during the night. Daryl probably thought he didn’t trust him, or was thinking the worst. “Tell me it wasn’-”

“I didn’t know what it wanted.” Rick clarified again, keeping his voice lower and calm to try and keep the redneck from yelling anymore. “I - that first night, I thought it was all me. Something I made up in my head,” because yes, those were things he couldn’t help but think about Daryl. So that first night he thought he was just having a really, _really_ good dream. And Daryl - well, he looked like he might be sick. “But it wasn’t about that! Look, you aren’t _listening_ to me!”

“Think I heard plenty.”

“No,” Rick snapped, stepping into the younger man’s space before he could turn away fully. “No, you do not get to shut me out like that. You’ve been keeping shit to yerself too! And you can’t say it ain’t important. I’m not stupid, Daryl! The town is fucking _dying_!” That got Daryl’s attention, his blazing eyes snapping over like a magnet and anger still radiating off his tan skin in waves. “I’ve seen the lot, and the _altar_ , Daryl? You hadn’t touched in weeks before I got there! You know better!”

“Don’ tell me w’at I fuckin’ know-” Daryl seethed through gritted teeth.

“Do you just not care?!”

“Ya don’ know SHIT ‘bout w’at I care a’bout!” He hollered, stepping into Rick’s space as well and his anger clashed with the deputy’s own.

“Yeah, you made sure of that,” Rick snapped, blue eyes piercing and unforgiving - but at the twitch to his eyes and a heavy exhale that lulled his head down, Rick realized Daryl was all but rolling his eyes at him! And that rage he kept so carefully caged inside his chest caught on like a furnace.

Daryl sneered, painting a smirk that looked like Merle, and an air of cruelty paired with it that was too much like his old man. The Dixon’s knee-jerk reaction to switch gears and make sure his words left a fucking impact happening between one breath and the next. But that anger stayed hot and fresh and driving him, where it stemmed from Rick didn’t even know anymore - and he was starting to not care either. Daryl’s fury matched Rick’s inch for inch and clashed between them like stormclouds.

“That don’ change a damn thing ‘bout you keepin’ somethin’ like - _this_ \- from me!” He shouted so loud it rattled Rick’s clenched teeth. “I could’ve fixed it! Maybe fix’d the damn house sooner!”

Rick let out a growl of frustration and an aborted motion to rip his hair out of his head, but opted to send that striking blue glare right at his ex-lover and make him _listen._ “No! Fuckin’ listen to me! It said this thing _wants_ out, it wants to possess somethang so it can and we _can’t let it out!_ It said-”

“OF COURSE IT FUCKIN’ DID! It’ll say anythin’ to get it’s hooks in ya!”

“Daryl!”

“Is tha’ what ya meant by the house owns you!? Tha’ you _belong_ to it? Because I will knock yer cowboy ass out and drag you out by yer hair if I hav’to-”

“DARYL! SHUT UP!” Rick pointed behind Daryl with one hand and grabbed his arm with the other to force him around. Their coffee cups were shaking on the counter and splashing liquid onto the books, which were shuddering as if from cold with the pages turning on their own, and the windows were also rattling in their frames. The whole kitchen felt heavier, the air cold and thick, and Rick remember their talk about negative energy filling the house - that the spirit down the hall fed off of it. Those emotions made it stronger.

_“Ya can’t do that again. We can’t, I kno’ it’s on me too.”_

“Us yelling is making it worse,” Rick said quietly, and Daryl only huffed hotly in response. But Rick could feel himself deflating like a punctured tire, the rage of fire finally controlled once more deep in his chest. He ran a hand through his hair, watching as everything settled again and breathed out a deep breath. “And honestly, it’s not helpin’ us eith- Hey!” Without speaking a word, Daryl turned heel and shouldered right past him. Out of the kitchen, through the mudroom, and on out the back door.

Rick didn’t even pause as he raced after him, because they were _not_ done with this conversation. Not by a long shot.


	10. Truth, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, the labor of love is complete. Y'all are in for quite a chapter, and Daryl sure can yell - I'm so bad with arguments it took _forever_ to get it down and it's the majority of the chapter. I really, really hope it lives up to what I wanted it to be; because after this chapter and a bit of the next I'm hoping the story will accelerate a lot. I know you have been dealing with a lot of plot points so I'm going to start bringing a few together and resolving things and hopefully it'll be a fun ride. 
> 
> Also, now that we've reached it, about... damn it was back in the spring I didn't think it was that long ago - I made a playlist for the next part of the story. As well as a new cover so to those who have been following my writing inspirations here is the link: https://8tracks.com/inspired-workaholic/southern-discomfort-vol-4
> 
> I'm about to go back and reply to everyone. Again, thank you all! Bless every single one of you who keep up with my crazy updates, and wait so patiently for me to get my ducks in a row and produce these chapters. As well as a big, huge, ginormous thanks to my beta The_Royal_Gourd who helped me trim some things down so this is as impactful as I wanted it to be. Honorary mentions also go to MaroonCamero who listened to me bitch and moan for a month, she usually does that anyway but this was a particularly hard chapter, as well as 1lostone for her teacher's notes on how to form dialogue and arguments. Any mistakes left in there are mine, I hope you enjoy <3

 

\--

\--

“Daryl!” Rick called once he broke into the bright sunshine outside the plantation house, looking for the redneck in every direction with his hand shading his eyes from the high climbing sun. It was almost directly overhead and blaring, despite the thick wall of dark clouds that were rolling in from the West with a vengeance. He caught sight of Daryl storming towards the swamp, crossing the expanse of grass at a brisk walk with no sign of slowing down. Was he _leaving?_  All his stuff was still inside, and his bike was still in the gravel drive. He didn’t even have shoes on!

Neither did Rick, for that matter, which became more apparent as he darted across the expanse of lawns covered in bits of the swamp and magnolia trees littered like land mines. He picked his way through as he jogged to catch up with the other man, not knowing why Daryl was going so far from the house, unless he figured he needed to be off the property to continue having their conversation - if one wanted to call it that. That didn’t bode well for Rick, but there was no way they were done talking about this. Yes, he’d fucked up in keeping the spirit in his room a secret. But they now knew more about whatever was haunting the garden wing that housed his grandparents’ bedroom, and Rick needed to make sure that information got through Daryl’s thick, stubborn, angry-backwoods-redneck skull. His “Dixon-rage” legacy could take a fucking backseat for 5 minutes. But if Daryl needed to scream at him before that happened, then Rick would let him.

If he caught him, that was. Daryl somehow moved faster on barefeet at a brisk walk than Rick did jogging and tripping over various things in the grass.

Just as Rick suspected, as soon as Daryl hit the treeline he spun around to face him, still seething in anger and not caring to hide it. Although he kept it at least partially in check, held in close and tightly wound like an animal preparing to strike out, but it glinted in his eyes sharp and dangerous. Fuck, he was pissed.

“You are som’ kind of stupid,” Daryl snarled harshly, his narrowed glare turning his expression mean and vicious. Rick slowed as he approached, keeping a good few feet between them, but Daryl seemed rooted to the ground at the treeline like the very dirt under his feet was giving him the strength to breathe without exhaling fire.

“Yeah, I got that,” Rick admitted, suddenly very aware of how he was standing, that he didn’t know what to do with his hands. He’d handled so many domestic calls he’d lost count, been reamed by authority figures and his mother alike, but he hadn’t been this nervous in the face of someone else’s anger in a _long_ time. He could feel his own rage that was always there deep in his chest, carefully caged and controlled until he needed it, start to rise and bubble up his own throat at Daryl’s violently offensive stance. Something about the other man always managed to rub him the wrong way. Or the right way, depending on the day. They clashed and built off each other no matter the situation it seemed. Rick just had to keep his own anger in check, let Daryl get it all out so they could get back to the matter at hand. He was the one in the wrong here, after all, so he owed Daryl that much.

“Do ya? Really?” Daryl outright sneered that time. It seemed Rick wasn’t the only one done with all the bullshit, and Daryl wasn’t going to be played like one of the ‘perpetrator scenarios’ from Rick’s days at the academy. He was too smart for that, and Rick realized he really should’ve known better. Daryl was a different breed of backwoods, and he was going to turn Rick’s world on it’s head - _again_ \- if the deputy didn’t take off the kid gloves and start playing offense instead of defence. “Because I don’ think you do, from the stupid ass look on yer face. Standin’ there like yer watchin’ the clock run out, think I’m gonna jus’ run my mouth until I tire out!? I outta beat yer ass inta the dirt!” He even made an aborted motion like he was about to stalk up and do just that, and Rick wasn’t too proud to admit he flinched, but the younger man just resumed his violent pacing along the tree line. Hands clenched at his sides and still looking to be debating if getting physical might get his point across faster than words. “Or at least knock som’ sense inta yer thick skull-”

“Woah, hey,” Rick interrupted before everything escalated more, raising his hands placatingly and also just incase Daryl did change his mind. “Just cal-”

“DON’ YOU FUCKIN’ TELL ME TA CALM DOWN!”

“OKAY! Okay!” Daryl wasn’t afraid to holler at the top of his lungs when they were outside, his voice probably echoing all the way down the plantation road, and Rick quickly switched gears mentally. They were going to fight today, there was no way around that, he just hoped he could keep it to arguing. A fist fight was the last thing he wanted. He might be able to pin the other if he got the upper hand, but Rick was pretty sure Daryl had him in strength. Those arms had to pack one hell of a punch. “I’m sorry.”

“You fuckin’ should be! Ya have no idea how bad this coul’da gone!” It wasn’t obvious that Daryl’s anger stemmed the most from worry, whether that be for Rick’s own well-being or for the collective morality of the whole estate and everyone who stepped foot on it, but it seemed a bit too personal for it to just be Rick tipping the scales of good and evil without knowing - again. He knew Daryl cared at least, Rick would fight anyone that said otherwise - including the youngest Dixon - but he couldn’t help but speculate that maybe it was even a touch more than that. Daryl seemed to care a little _too much_ , and was by far the angriest Rick had seen him in a long time. Years. “Why woul’n’t ya _say_ anythin’? What were ya thinking!?”

“Was thinkin’ it’d be kind of awkward to mention I’d been having sex dreams about my ex-boyfriend.” The words started and Rick really couldn’t take them back once he’d begun, even though every nerve ending was screaming at him that it was a bad idea. “Y’know, especially when we’re supposed ta be workin’ together.” He wasn’t completely sure if it was his own self-destructive need to hash this out after they had tip-toed around it so long, or if that primal part Rick had been trying to keep in check was just really itching for a fight, but he could feel his resolve slipping through his fingers like water the longer Daryl kept screaming at him.

“I don’ give a _shit_ if it was ‘awkward’, ya should’a told me!”

“Cause that woul’dve gone well,” Rick huffed in arrogant disbelief, the words snapping in the air like a crack of lightning - and just like that Rick would feel the anger and hurt he’d thought he’d gotten past amplifying in radiating pulses. He became physically aware of the house behind him without looking at it; a singular dark shadow on the horizon line that cast a dim obscurity across the estate like dusk was falling, even though it was barely noon. Made worse by the storm clouds rolling in. He could feel it’s presence at his back solidly, reaching for him, tendrils stretching along the grass to his bare feet and spreading like a fire through his limbs. Racing through each vein and artery to settle hatefully in his heart, and both he and Daryl seemed to recognize this at the exact same time.

“Get off the grass,” Daryl demanded, pointing next to him, and Rick almost didn’t want to move on principle. But he skirted the other in a good five foot arc until he too was off the property, settling back between the giant live oak trees just inside the tree line, and the blind hate stopped pulsing like a drum beat in every molecule, but the hurt had been rekindled and Rick couldn’t help it - he was still _angry_.

It was everything, a big pile of thriving moments like snakes in a pit and it brought a tension to every knotted muscle and twitching nerve as he stood stock still between the trees. There was so much to be mad about that it was almost numbing. He wasn’t just mad about the lying, or the fact that Daryl obviously still didn’t trust him fully, or that Rick had just given him a good extra 10 reasons to continue to not trust him. To not fuck up things he’d never fully understand. Although all of that certainly fanned the ever growing flames of his usually controlled temper, and at the heart of it all the source of his rekindled anger was an old wound still festering. No matter how much he told himself he wasn’t, Rick was still mad about what happened between them when they were eighteen. Even though it was clear that incident had been neither his nor Daryl’s fault. It just still wasn’t _fair_ , and Rick didn’t care how petulant that made him sound.

But that wasn’t what any of this was about, he had to tamper it all back - keep a tight lid on it as much as he could. They were here because Rick had lied to Daryl, and Daryl was still lying to him. He didn’t know if he could get Daryl to admit anything, but he needed to at least make the redneck pay attention to what he had learned the night before. Too long they had gone head first into things that they didn’t necessarily know anything about, despite Daryl’s many hours of research, so for _once_ the younger man was going to listen to all the variables before they fucked everything up more. Rick just had to keep himself in check as well as the other, an impossible task laid before him like a mountain made of glass. He knew he was going to slip up a few times, say some cruel things that Daryl could match without batting an eye, but he had to try to maintain some form of focus.

There was just one problem.

Daryl’s fucking attitude wasn’t helping.

With a distinct irritation that bordered on resentment, Daryl watched him for long moments of silence. His stare was penetrating, like he was dissecting an animal, picking Rick apart piece by piece - and just looking _so angry_. As angry as Rick felt, but he hoped it wasn’t showing as much as it was on Daryl’s face. But what was keeping him so mad? That he hadn’t figured everything out sooner? That it might be too late for Rick? That he hadn’t beaten the truth out of the older man before now? The particular sting was that he looked like he regretted every decision that had led them to that moment; and that made Rick wonder if maybe Daryl had given him some leniency and space at the beginning, because of their history, that now looked so unwarranted it was almost painful.

“I don’ even know how bad it is,” Daryl admitted in quiet outrage, in place of an explanation about whatever the presence of the house had just done to Rick. A statement that if said years ago would have made Rick feel profound amounts of guilt, and a given him a fierce drive to help fix whatever he had aided in breaking. But when paired with the Dixon’s _fucking_ indignation that they were even in this situation, his antagonizing stance that always brought out the worst in Rick, he couldn’t find it in himself to not scoff. His last speck of resolve the only thing stopping him from laughing out right. But never the less Daryl’s eyes blazed at his exasperation and thinly veiled taunting. “What?” he spat.

“Just - nothang new to us, right?” Rick pointed out, not bothering to hide his accusation. “We never know how bad it is, even after everythang goes ta shit.”

“Yeah, since ya love ta stick yer big fat nose where it don’ belong!” Daryl hollered in attack, glaring so intensely he could’ve burnt holes in Rick’s face. “Ya always have! Always meddlin’ in shit ya know _nuthin_ about, tramplin’ all over the damn place and not listenin’ ta a _word_ I said-”

“Bullshit I didn’t! Just cause I ignored yer stupid fucking reasoning that I should stay out of stuff that neither of us should’ve been near, doesn’t mean I didn’ listen. Meanwhile you went an’ dived in headfirst anyway.”

“B’cause I know w’at I’m fuckin’ doing!”

“Like hell you do! You never did!” Rick was screaming back by this point, beyond filtering any of his words to try and keep control of the argument. Daryl’s verbal attack triggering one of his own. “Not with the big shit! Sure ya know _how_ ta do everything, but you never - _never_ \- thought about the consequences!” The next thought brought an incredulous tilt of his lips that mimicked a smile in the worst of ways, but he just couldn’t hold it back. “I don’t know _why_ I thought you had never lied to me this much before, back when we were growin’ up. You always lied to me to try and make me do what you wanted.”

“I ain’t th’ only one lyin’ through my teeth, _Grimes_. Anythin’ else ya want ta get off yer chest?” Daryl seethed with clenched teeth, but Rick paid it no heed.

“Sure. You’re a selfish asshole tryin’ ta play a martyr - and it’s getting really old.”

“ _I’m_ a matryr?! _Me?_ ” Daryl hollered at him in outrage, spinning around to face him fully with eyes on fire in his hate, hands shaking like he could start throwing punches at any moment. “ _Fuck you_. Grimes!”

“No, fuck _you_! - You think yer doing this for me, or your family, or whatever else ya use to justify risking your life and sometimes more than that. But for what!? You honestly don’t know if you’re making it all worse when ya come in and try to ‘ _fix_ thangs’. And hell, I’m startin’ ta think you don’t even fuckin’ care if you do anymore!”

“I risk _everythin’_ ta keep this damn town from bein’ swallowed up by the ground! You have _no_ idea, _none_!” Daryl screamed at him, his voice hitting that high pitch that rattled through Rick’s ear drums and made every word heard to his very bones. “It’s all lost an’ hangin’ by a damn thread! Why the fuck should I scrambl’ ta save everyone when they won’ save them’selves! Ain’t no love lost between us! Whole _damn_ town can-”

“THERE AIN’T GONNA BE A TOWN LEFT TO SAVE, DARYL!” Rick yelled even louder to be heard over the Dixon’s ranting.

“Then good fuckin’ riddence to ‘em!” he spat venomously, and Rick couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He had just been poking sharp sticks where he thought they might hurt when he said Daryl didn’t care about the consequences anymore - there was no way he was _right_.

“WHO _ARE_ YOU!?” Rick screamed, and had a sudden violent flashback to screaming the same words at Shane years and years ago. But no, this was different than that. Back then Rick had been more than naive to the world that surrounded him, with all it’s prejudice and history that was ingrained in the town’s residents as much as the swamps that lined the roads and the red Georgia clay beneath their feet. Rick knew better, knew Daryl better. He couldn’t let his anger get the best of him here and say more than he had that he didn’t really mean. Pointing at the other, voice a few decibels lower than the screaming match they had just engaged in, Rick made sure his words were sharp and clear and that the Dixon fucking _heard_ him when he spoke. “You might not be who I thought you were growing up, Daryl Dixon, but you aren’t _this_. You _care_ about thangs. People. This town, even when it didn’ love you back. And you know when somethang is too stupid or dangerous to try-”

“Like keepin’ a spirit in m’room secret an’ not askin’ for help?” he retorted, not at all calmed down - but at least his hollering had ceased. Not that his snide attitude helped the situation, and Rick had to keep back the rage that threatened to bubble up his throat once more like a hot flood.

“Like whatever SHIT you’ve been up to that’s been running you into the damn ground!” He said through clenched teeth, not sure if the anger was fueled by his aggravation at the other’s blatant disregard for his own well-being, or simply because Daryl was being a dick about everything. “Dangerous shit, by the looks of it. The fuck have you been up to for six years? What happened to you to make you like this?”

“Life happened,” Daryl quipped cryptically, beginning to pace again. Rick couldn’t blame him for the answer, life had a way of kicking you in the balls at the worst of times and then not giving you a chance to get back up before it sent more hits your way. But he and Daryl were never ones to stop fighting when they were kicked to the ground.

“Well, you didn’t used to be this cruel,” Rick said pointedly, accusingly, Daryl snapping his glare back his direction as he continued to move about the treeline. “Or shout this much.”

“I’M ANGRY!”

“No shit!” Rick snapped back. “But what the fuck are you gonna do about it?”

“Ring your head like a damn bell if ya don’ shut yer trap!” Daryl roared in his direction, making more violent gestures and even closing some of the space between them, but Rick didn’t move an inch as a dark angry look began to spread across his own face.

“Oh I’m startin’ to want you to make me.” If Daryl was going to keep feigning his motions at coming and kicking his ass then Rick wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of flinching. If Daryl was going to hit him then he better do it and make it fucking count.

“FUCK, I can’ stand you!” The Dixon screamed at him, visibly stopping himself from doing just that and turning back to put more space between them so he didn’t have the temptation. Rick would have commended his control if the other didn’t look like his head was about to explode.

“We both knew that,” Rick retorted with an annoyed lilt to his voice. He didn’t need reminding that Daryl had once been tricked into caring as much as he did, it just brought up a lot of hurt and hate that didn’t have a place in this conversation. But Rick could never let it go, even six years later it still felt fresh. “God and the Lwa knew that. As a matter of fact - why the fuck are you so angry?”

“Cause I’m sick an’ tired of yer lying ass keeping shit that’s IMPORTANT from me!” Fair enough, Rick thought to himself, but Daryl didn’t used to stew over stuff like this for long periods of time unless it meant something to him.

“If that was it, then you’d be over it by now - or have left already,” Rick pointed out, his voice back to that calm and collected tone that really only gave way to how enraged he still was.

“I’m makin’ to-” Daryl threatened, but Rick cut him off. Having none of it.

“No,” he snapped, taking a few steps forward without realizing. “See _this,_ this is you _caring._ And I don’t know why you care other than you aren’t as much of a dick as you want me to think - but I do know that you care. In fact it’s the only thing I _do_ know ‘bout you,” he couldn’t help but add snidely, drudging up the lying point again. The whole reason they were out there barefoot and screaming at each other on the edge of the swamp.

Daryl just sneered at him, that look that was too much Merle and not enough of himself, “I _don’_ care.”

“Yes, you do you _stubborn_ , fucking asshole!” Rick was close enough to scream it right into Daryl’s face, within arms reach and he knew he was tempting fate being in swinging distance - but he was far past the point of worrying about something as trivial as Daryl hitting him. The other was still being evasive, and Rick had interrupted his pacing even as the other tried to turn away, doing so again and again as he continued to drive his points home - not looking away even though Daryl was trying to stare anywhere but Rick’s blazing blue eyes. “You care! And as much as I don’t _want_ to I care that you’re obviously digging your own grave-”

“Then why th’ fuck you still here!” Daryl hollered back at him, voice so loud Rick almost flinched back. The other was filtering his words out, not really hearing him, so Rick would repeat himself until he was hoarse if he had to.

“Because for all I know you’re killing yourself!”

“You don’ know jack!”

“I know you’re lying every time ya speak!” Rick screamed at him. “And by the way, you suck at it!” Daryl finally broke the physical barrier at that point and shoved Rick back a good three feet, giving him space to turn away and try to resume pacing but Rick cornered him again, forcing the other to look him in the face.

“Kept yer ass runnin ‘n circles,” Daryl jeered, although the heat had no more of the cruelty behind it. In fact an almost panicked look bled through the fuming rage that had stayed present the entire arguement.

“Oh no,” Rick almost laughed, his own rage getting the better of him - the ever-shifting ball he kept chained up lashing out at the worst time, no matter how hard he tried to contain it. “You don’t suck at lying, you suck at keeping them all straight.”

“If that were true we’d b’havin’ a whole different conversation,” Daryl growled lowly, and tried to turn away the moment he realized what he’d said. Rick’s hand darted out and grabbed his arm to stop the movement, the other looked ready to finally dart across the plantation grounds and just drive home barefoot.

“What the hell does that mean?” he demanded, Daryl lashing out in a violent motion that ripped him from Rick’s grasp and put a few feet of space back between them. But Rick didn’t let up, even as Daryl turned away but this time towards the forest.

“Nuthin.”

“No, fuck you, what they hell are you keeping from me?” Rick asked again, the same demanding tone that held no argument in getting around the subject.

“Nuthin’ that concerns _you_ ,” Daryl hissed at him, glaring over his shoulder as he spat it and Rick almost laughed.

“Okay, now you suck at both.”

“God _DAMNIT_ , WHY CAN’T YOU LEAVE IT ALONE!?” Daryl exploded, words echoing loudly between the trees. “WHY CAN’T YOU LEAVE ANYTHIN’ ALONE!?”

“Cause I’m a nosy shit, that’s why!” Rick shot back with a light sneer.

“DAMN STRAIGHT!” Daryl agreed but his pacing had resumed with a vengeance, had almost turned more panicked and violent. Daryl was still angry, but that anger was now from being cornered and Rick knew he was close to getting the redneck to admit whatever had been going on with him. He just hadn’t expected the reaction he was getting, and it was making him begin to panic a little too.

“Seriously, the hell is it? You’re scaring me!”

“Oh, I’m scaring you!?” Daryl had crossed the distance between them faster than Rick could blink, suddenly up in Rick’s space so close he could’ve butted heads with the other. “You could’ve died! Or worse! Don’ you get that!? And I can’ bring you back from that, you would’ve been _gone!_ I can’t lose you again, not like that!”

“Lose me?” Rick parroted breathlessly.

“Yes, you stupid, fuckin’ infuriatin’ little - GAH!” He turned on his heel with his hands thrown up and pulling at his hair, but Rick’s brain had screeched to a damn halt. _Lose him_ , the hurt from what happened years ago flared vividly, and Rick wasn’t even sure he could see straight.

“ _Lose me_. You already _lost me_ , you never even _had_ me,” he seethed, and Daryl couldn’t even look at him but the way his shoulders had been hunched the entire shouting match suddenly changed and he heaved a breath that deflated a lot of the anger out his stance.

“I thought we were fixin’ it,” if they hadn’t been in the enclosed space under the canopy of the swamp, Rick might not have even heard him. Daryl’s voice was even raspier from the yelling and screaming, words almost breathed out instead of spoken, and an emotion Rick couldn’t name was there even through the exhaustion that laced every syllable. Rick almost felt _bad_ , and that deflated some of his own anger as well. But this had to stop, for both their sakes.

“There’s nothing to fix, Daryl. It wasn’t real, it never was.” Rick tried to keep his own words level and grounded, make the other see reason; fuck, he _knew_ something had been up with Daryl and how they were acting. But it wasn’t real, Daryl had never felt any kind of romance or affection for him beyond their childhood friendship that Rick still wouldn’t trade for the world. He bet Daryl wouldn’t either; but the memories of false emotions must have given him the notion that something could still happen, be mended, but it wasn’t going to work that way. It was hard enough to accept that he was the only one in love back then, but it had become a mantra that Rick lived by day in and day out, it’s how he had gotten through the years. Nothing was going to erase that, no matter how much anyone wanted it to. Not if Daryl had never loved him back. Anything else was just a fool’s notion and they both deserved better than that.

“That true for you?” Daryl asked out of the blue, unexpected and it threw Rick back a bit.

“It doesn’t matter what I feel.” That was obviously the wrong thing to say, though Rick wasn’t sure why. Not a second later Daryl was shifting and back to pacing again, but he kept his back mostly turned to Rick now, alternating between making violent swings of his arms and raking his hands brutally through his short hair.

“I know it’s hard to hear,” Rick tried to reason with him, hoping his words were being heard. “and you probably are confused because we were always so close growin’ up, but you gotta listen to yourself if nothang else. You gotta remember what ya said years ago.”

Daryl growled in aggravation, now pulling at the short strands on his head and Rick moved closer as if to cease the abuse but Daryl’s pacing was too violent to interrupt this time. He kept catching glimpses of panicked, burdened pale blue eyes that darted around at the ground - so he kept speaking in the same calming tones. His academy training trying to kick in, but Rick knew he couldn’t treat Daryl like a perp. He was too important; so all he took away was the calming tone of his voice and repeating important phrases, the rest was all just the history between them.

“You have to remember that moment. None of it was real to you.”

“Fuckin’ _shit_ ,” Daryl cursed in a hoarse whisper, both hands in his hair and tugging at the strands over his ears. “Just shut up…”

“No, Daryl,” Rick said as gently and firmly as he could. “Cause this hurts me too, but we both have to put it past us. Whatever ya think you’re feeling, it’s not real; it’s a trick because we did miss each other but you’re remembering thangs that weren’t really us. It was a curse to distract you.”

“Shut _up_ , Rick. Ya don’ ev’r und’rstan’ shit,” Daryl growled louder, turning from him fully and the way his back muscles worked Rick knew he was grabbing the short strands of his hair so tight it was way past the point of pain.

“Daryl stop hurtin’ yourself,” he added, coming up behind the other and closing the distance with each step without even knowing he was doing so. “It’s not your fault, you just have to remind yourself that none of it was real. None of it.”

“Fuck, just SHUT UP!”

“You told me that,” Rick continued, this time not matching Daryl’s volume despite the other’s franticness. “It was just a curse, Moreau’s curse. It wasn’t real.”

“RICK DAMNIT STOP!”

“Listen - you never really felt anything, and that’s _not_ your fault. It’s okay.”

“NO IT’S FUCKIN’ NOT!” Rick knew he was standing too close, could feel the way Daryl’s whole body was strung tight as his crossbow string and almost shaking. The hunter had to feel the heat of Rick’s own body near his back, and Rick’s hands hesitantly began to reach out for the other.

“Daryl, please hear me, it was all just-” Daryl launched forward, away from Rick’s calm voice and presence near pressed against him, and screamed into the dark that stretched endlessly in front of them between the trees.

_“I FUCKING LIED!”_

\--

Rick was left speechless, not quite sure what the redneck meant. He knew Daryl had been lying to him, that’s what this was all about - the lies they’d been telling each other - but the way he admitted it… it felt like something different. And Rick had trained himself to steer away from hope, leaving him confused and not sure what to say.

His hands were still tightly wound in his hair when Daryl turned back around to look at him, an elaborate array of emotions in those pale blue eyes shifting and intermingling like shapes in a kaleidoscope. It was the most expressive Rick had seen him in _years_ , and it stole his breath away with any words he might’ve come up with in that moment. He looked so _terrified_ , in every sense of the word, frustrated and anxious and so thrown as to what to do next that they just stared at each other. But Daryl also looked so fucking _sad_ , and overburdened with whatever those three words meant to him, a lifetime-worth of regret staining everything slowly like a wound bleeding and Rick didn’t know what to _say_. But it became obvious Daryl had expected him to say _something_ , and their unspoken method of communication failed them when they needed it most. That only compounded everything in the younger man’s expression to the point it muddled and Rick couldn’t decipher it anymore.

But that open-faced display of despair was so reminiscent of the man Rick had lost in the Dixon lot years ago it shook him. He was helpless to aid the situation.

“...Back then.” Daryl finally said after a stretch of silence that felt like an eternity, and it took another moment of quiet where all they could hear was the wind through the trees for Rick to realize he wasn’t about to continue his exclamation, he was elaborating on it.

Every thought in his head burned to nothing in a flash like tissue paper caught aflame. Rick’s whole body went cold in shock despite the sweat clinging to his skin, and his heart lodged in his throat as he put the two confessions together. With Daryl just _staring_ at him in desperation, willing him to understand, that slowly bled to panic at whatever expression was on Rick’s face. He knew he didn’t look angry, and he knew he wasn’t smiling, but other than that Rick couldn’t even _feel_ his face or do anything to change what must have been the most stunned look he could manage through the numbness.

“I… I had to,” Daryl began again, loud as if Rick was too far away to hear him and not a few feet in distance. “You _died_ tha’ night, or near ‘nough to it, a-and it wasn’ gonna stop there.” Daryl took a step or two forward but hesitated when Rick didn’t move from where he stood rooted to the grass. “I had ta make a promise, ta keep ya here. ‘r alive, no’ here, no’ aft’r Moreau curs’d ya with his dyin’ breath - that shit is immortal an’ they weren’ gonna bring ya back jus’ ta have yer soul ripp’d apart ov’r and ov’r and-” Daryl was talking so fast that his backwoods drawl began to slur his words together, and his rambling was enough of a barrier to shake some of the shock from Rick’s rigid muscles. His jaw had been locked tight and finally unstuck, feeling like peanut butter had been sticking his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He parted his lips to breathe deep and try to regain his bearings, begin to _think_ beyond what Daryl was trying to explain to him. But only one thought kept running through his head:

_I fucking_ **_knew_ ** _it._

As a teenager he had _screamed_ at Daryl that the other was lying to him to save his ass, it was just the one time that the hunter had tricked him into believing him. And fuck was he hating himself for not listening to his instincts, of course Daryl would have done that to try and keep him safe. He had done it before.

“-and I couldn’ let tha’ happ’n either.” Daryl told him, with more earnest than Rick he was capable of anymore. That notion alone made everything strike real and vivid, and it must have sparked in his expression when he finally began to _look_ at Daryl again as he spoke. “An’ I know it ain’t right, what I did. Wha’ I said.” His momentum slowed rapidly as he kept carefully watching Rick’s face and expression, weary and still looking so cornered and almost vulnerable - but also _lighter_ than he had in a long while. “I kno’ yer angry an’... hurt an’ shit by wha’ I put ya through. I-” He let out a breath of air that deflated the hostile stance he’d been holding, and admitted with quiet words like he didn’t want to say them. “I thought y’were nev’r comin’ back. Thought you’d b’ safe, wher’ver ya end’d up, away from me.”

To Daryl, he and the rest of the Dixon family were the main component to all of Rick’s woes and horrors. To him, even being near the property put a curse on whoever dared to do so. They weren’t good people, in fact they were very much like the men and women Rick arrested on a daily basis - which was probably why he was so good at his job. He wasn’t scared of them, the loudness or violent lashing out, the front put up like rattlesnakes coiled up in grass ready to strike if approached.

“Fuckin’ shit - SAY SOMETHIN’!” Daryl shouted at him, breaking Rick from his train of thought. It was so much easier to follow than any of the others that were running and crashing through his head. It was his own safeguard to keep himself from doing or saying something stupid, holding himself as still as possible and letting everything ride itself out: the helpless feeling that he had mourned as did, for a man he thought never existed, was now a useless notion he had wasted _years_ on. Countless sleepless nights and more tears than he wanted to admit. Any anger was nothing near what it had been, they had worn that bit out the past hour or so the two men had been shouting at each other; the beast of rage Rick kept caged tight was well fed and didn’t have the steam to continue in the same manner. Especially when disbelief took hold of everything and the sheriff's deputy part of his brain took over each corner like martial law in a war zone. Because he had seen and experienced many things in the weeks since he returned to White Oak, a lot of which were figments of his imagination and of something else’s. When compared to the hurt and rage he’d stewed in for years Rick was finding himself hard pressed to even believe what he was hearing.

The only thing that proved otherwise was the electric-shock of his heart still trying to beat in his chest, hitting him harsh in an erratic rhythm that was maddening. It hurt too much to not be real.

He opened his mouth to respond, but words just escaped him. What the fuck was he supposed to say here? He knew it had to be something, by the way Daryl’s pale blue stare had turned wide and panicked; if he didn’t then there was a good chance the redneck was going to run. Disappear between the trees like he belonged with them, and this time Rick knew he would _never_ see him again.

“I’m… processing,” Rick finally managed to say, his tongue feeling too large for his mouth and the words hard to maneuver, but they came to him as he vividly remembered Daryl saying the same thing in the kitchen at Rick’s own confession. Only with a lot more vicious wording tacked on. Fixing a look on Daryl so soundly he knew it would keep the younger man rooted to the spot, Rick tried to organize what he was going to say next. Already knowing if Daryl fled that he had absolutely no reservations about chasing after the hunter barefoot through the forest until he caught up with him. He’d done it before, he’d do it again.

“I…” Rick let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and let everything flow - there was no way to keep this gentle and honestly, Daryl didn’t really deserve it in that moment. “I don’ know if I believe it,” at Daryl’s stricken look, Rick corrected himself. “This - not you.” He was glad he didn’t have to elaborate he was referring to all the dreams and visions he’d been encountering, after all - it was what the youngest Dixon had been screaming about all morning. He was having a hard time believing this was really happening and not something being played out for him. It didn’t need to be brought back up, they hadn’t forgotten what the house and it’s hidden occupants could do. Daryl sobered a little at the subject, understanding but still looking about two seconds from just turning tail and running.

“You lied,” Rick began, clear as he could and spoken as if reading from a list of charges on a file. It wasn’t going to last long, the false calm, but it would get the ball rolling and keep Rick’s temper from rearing it’s head too early. “... about the curse?” Daryl nodded hesitantly at the vague question. “Moreau’s curse?” that got him a curt nod in agreement, they both knew the words the thin man had spat with blood in his teeth had been a real curse, so Rick was obviously referring to Daryl’s fabled mention of another in the Dixon lot. “What else.” He said it as a statement instead of a question, there had to be more - this felt too big for it to not be more.

The look on Daryl’s face said more than the words that followed; hands clenched at his sides and a shamed look that made Rick think _‘all of it’_. “Th’ only real thing tha’ mornin’ were the hex bags.” Rick went through the whole memory like a scene in a film reel, adding up all the insinuations and words shouted and again wasn’t sure what to say in response. “They were everywhere,” Daryl told him, not looking at him for a moment, “it scared th’ shit outta me.” It would’ve taken a long time and a lot of visits for one group to leave as many cursed objects as Rick remembered seeing being burned that morning six years ago, so he got that - but damnit, Daryl.

“So your obvious first choice was ta make up a story that would rip me to shreds and send me runnin’,” Rick said without any tact, that small flame of anger making itself known to the both of them, begging to be fed again. “To make me leave.”

“Yeah,” Daryl answered. Honest and open and without any regret, the only weight behind his stare mirroring something Rick was all too familiar with. He had seen it day after day in the mirror above his bathroom sink. Whatever pain Rick had felt, Daryl had felt it just the same - but he had accepted it much faster than the deputy. It had killed them both for Rick to run into the forest that day, with no intentions of ever coming back. Daryl had crossed his arms over his chest at some point, just to have something to do with his hands, give him something to hold on to. “Yer too stubborn,” he added after a moment. “You’d nev’r leave - otherwise.”

The _leave me_ wasn’t voiced, but Rick heard it loud and clear.

_Fuck_.

Daryl hadn’t changed one bit. That thought alone sparked a warm flutter in his chest, too comforting for words, and Rick had to do everything he could to make sure it didn’t show on his face. He was supposed to be _mad_ at the other man, not thinking about… how he used to be.

“So - what was the last two weeks then?” Rick asked as sharp as he could, noting the lack of edge in his voice even as he spoke. “Being a dick to me and then… whatever ya thought you were doin’. Ya thought we were ‘fixing thangs’?”

Keeping his eyes on the ground, Daryl shrugged his broad shoulders and tried to school his expression that had been stripped so bare he appeared to be having trouble. He looked lost, defensiveness flirting across his expression in a knee-jerk reaction courtesy of his upbringing. “I’ve always been kind’f a dick. Ain’t exactly been a happy six years sinc’ ya left.”

“Since you lied ta me,” Rick corrected him.

“Yeah.”

“About the curse, about everythang,” Rick had to keep repeating the words as best he could - his tactic to calm the other down now reversed to keep himself in the conversation. It was the only way he was going to accept what he was hearing, seeing as Daryl kept nodding dejectedly and was not able to look at him. “So you’re sayin’ you made it all up, and it’s not true - that you never felt anythang.” Rick’s voice trailed off, trying desperately to make the information sink in, but he just couldn’t make himself believe it!

“Well, you were very convincing,” Rick declared, the edge back when thinking back on the bitter memories for the hundredth time that morning. “Making it all sound connected, I’m almost impressed.” He knew his words stung, he might have even witnessed Daryl flinching at it, so he tried to reel it all back inside himself once more. It wasn’t going to get them anywhere, at this impasse where Daryl was laying his heart at his feet and Rick’s couldn’t trust to hope that it was all true.

“I mean - I believed it, that it was all some cruel lie,” he reminisced seriously, quietly. Knowing it wasn’t helping when Daryl continued to look so damn ashamed, but Rick couldn’t help it when his chest felt like it had been carved open. “That you never really loved me at all.”

Daryl sighed so heavily his whole chest moved with the motion, and he finally glanced up at the other with all the integrity and grounded openness Rick used to know him to embody.

“I always loved you,” he promised, raspy and real. “Ev’r since we were small an’ didn’ ev’n know wha’ it meant. Never stopp’d after ya left -” a look so sad and accepting settled in his eyes, staring as he drank in whatever he saw in Rick’s face like it would be the last time he would get to do so. “... and I don’ think I ev’r will.”

Rick couldn’t breathe.

He had heard the words, spoken as if explaining that the sky was blue and the grass was green, that the sun rose in the east and fell in the west. Like it was the simplest truth, something that is just _known_ and could be felt deep in the bones and blood that made up who they were. Something so true for Daryl he didn’t even question it, heard by Rick like a revelation that had been there all along - and he just refused to see it. Tried to ignore it, move past it, the hurt and pain that had spanned years wasn’t simply something that could be gotten over because it was _a part_ of him. Every single word Daryl had uttered felt true to Rick as well, and he felt so _stupid_.

With lips parted Rick tried to inhale, tried to breathe out words but there was nothing there except what Daryl had just confessed. Again, he didn’t know what to _say_. Daryl had just said it all. He found himself nodding absently, both in agreement and in confirmation to himself.

He knew what he had to do.

_Okay._

Daryl’s instinct to back away from Rick as he closed the distance between them caught on too slow, stuttered because there was still a part of him that expected Rick to hit him - he knew he deserved it. It flitted across Rick’s mind as well as he tried to force one foot in front of the other, the choice to move at all and lifting his feet from where he’d been rooted lasting an eternity. But it took no time to make those three steps and grab onto the other, one hand fisted in his shirt to stop the hunter’s retreat, and the other on his neck to pull him forward. Rick didn’t stop moving, so when they crashed together they crashed hard, pressing close enough he knew Daryl would feel his heartbeat in his chest - thundering fast but steady. Not giving him a chance to doubt a damn thing as Rick leaned in and kissed the breath out of him.

The moment he caught it Daryl surged forward, kissing him back so deeply and fully Rick’s head spun. Between one breath and the next Daryl was pressing just as hard as Rick had, searing his lips to Rick’s and parting them in the motion before the older man could attempt to pry them apart himself. It was rough, bruising, _lasting_ in all the ways Rick had wanted it to be; solidifying that it was real. Rick had wanted to _feel_ it, make Daryl feel it, and that had been his only goal until Daryl had kissed him back. The moment he had tasted Daryl opening up for him, aggressive and enforcing but also so damn inviting, just a swipe of his tongue and he was drowning. In rain, in the damp earth of the swamp, engine oil and cigarettes and that clash of energy like tasting the ozone. The rumble of thunder in his chest, lightning on his tongue. It was everything he had yearned for and nothing he could had ever reimagined in his wildest dreams. It was _Daryl_. Clutching onto him with bruising force like he would disappear otherwise, melting into every edge of bone and curve of muscle, and kissing Rick over and _over_ as if a man dying of thirst. They gasped for breath when they dared to stop for air, the two leaning on each other for support when the neglect created dizzying effects.

With one gasp in particular, where Rick had to pull himself back far enough to breathe, Daryl didn’t bother to stop and pressed breathy open-mouthed kisses where he could reach - trailing over his jaw, his cheeks, and back to his slack mouth with Rick participating when he could. It was then that Rick realized it was becoming undoubtedly clear that this was real; his dream-Daryl paled in comparison. The _real_ Daryl was all rough edges and callouses that snagged at his clothes and skin, chapped lips from yelling his damn heart out that he constantly caught on Rick’s before they managed to smooth them out with their ministrations. But there was a muscle memory there that had him angling his head to kiss Rick just right, get a deeper taste, brush his nose in meaningful nudges and nuzzles instead of knocking them harshly as they had done as teenagers. Too eager, or nervous, to stop what was going on just as Rick was; both afraid that when the moment was over it would be gone. When they came back to what started it all.

“I should be so mad at you,” Rick breathed, not letting go of Daryl even as the other man slowed his blind worship of every inch of Rick’s face. It stalled the redneck long enough for Rick to catch his gaze when he pulled back, but Rick wouldn’t let him move out of his embrace. Still standing so close the other couldn’t hide from him anymore, and Rick didn’t know what he was searching for in those depths that were so hazy and glazed over as the hunter tried to catch his breath. Because Rick _should_ have been mad, furious even - why the hell would either of them expect Rick to forgive Daryl so easily? Daryl certainly didn’t, that much was clear. He looked almost expectant, like he knew this was where it shifted and there was no other way it could go.

It only took a few of those deep labored breaths for Rick to lean back in and kiss Daryl again, not lacking any of the passion his declaration had temporarily stalled.

Fuck.

No matter how he looked at it, tried to remind himself of everything he was put through and was just _livid_ about only moments before. Right then, right there, with the other man still holding on to him like he never wanted to let go for fear it would be the last time - damnit he just _couldn’t_ be mad at Daryl. Not when he was standing there looking like his whole world had crashed down around him and it was the most _wonderful_ thing -  to have it all off of his broad shoulders for _one moment_. Holding the moon that he had never hoped to reach, or even see again in the endless night his life resembled.

Daryl _fucking_ Dixon. He hadn’t changed one bit and it made Rick’s entire chest _ache_. He hadn’t lost him, he had never gone anywhere or been a figment of someone’s cruel imagination, he hadn’t even moved from the same run down little tin shack in the backwoods. He was still the same man Rick had loved and died for. The same man who had shown him an entire world buried beneath the thin layer that everyone else saw around them, beating with life like blood vessels beneath the skin. The same man who had been a boy that dragged Rick by the hand through the forest in the dead of night to save his life. Who had revealed the spirits of the swamp and the sky, ancestors both revered and abandoned, that everything had a voice if you listened to it. Showed him magic and forces no one dared to search for, as well as how to look at life and death in a way that was beautiful. Who had showed him how to love something with all your heart and still respect it enough to let it be.

He was the same, wonderful, amazing man who was a wonder to witness and a blessing to know. He was selfless, and still selfish, kind with a mean streak that was spawned from being protective of his own. He was fucking smart, understood the way of the world and all the things in it better than someone three times his age. Cared _so damn much_ about his family and his town and his religion that the strength of his beliefs could move mountains.

To Rick, it was never even a question if he forgave Daryl. Just knowing the truth was enough.


	11. Evening on the Ground (Lilith's Song)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I don't have much to say for this one mainly because I am sick as shit, as well as pregnant - therefore my last like 36 hours have been very unpleasant for me. BUT we got the chapter finished, it needed a lot of work sadly but my wonderful beta The_Royal_Gourd helped me see the light in a few places that really needed to be reworked. Emotions are hard. I hope you all like the final product, I figured after all the fighting and screaming both us and the boys were due for some R&R. I will however hold my promise to speed up the storyline and connect all these scattered dots _very_ soon. 
> 
> Also, I will try to respond to comments from last chapter sometime tomorrow - but I might not make it this time around. I apologize if I don't, and I want you all to know how thankful and grateful I still am that you are following this story <3 Hope you enjoy.

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It was unclear if one of them pushed at the other so much they toppled over, or if someone had pulled at clothing and limbs alike as they sank to the ground - or quite possibly a combination of some sort - but either way Rick really didn’t notice his back was on the forest floor until his short-cropped dark curls got caught in the cool grass beneath them. Sent reeling from a particularly searing kiss that had been so driven it would have knocked them both off balance if they had been upright, which in all honestly probably solved the question of how they ended up on the ground in the first place.

He should’ve been ashamed at how easily Daryl had pinned him down; Rick’s head spinning at the younger man’s enthusiasm and overwhelming presence that filled every sense to it’s fullest capacity. His mouth moved with an ebb and flow like a river, beginning slow and steady until he was giving and taking more with each passing moment, his strength getting the better of him on a few occasions where he turned almost too rough. It was all Rick could do to keep up - keep his head above water, so to speak - and make sure he wasn’t getting lost in the current that pulsed from the other’s body, so intoxicating he would’ve gladly drowned. He couldn’t help but get lost in the _realness_ of it, how different it was to every dream he had ever come up with in the confines of his own mind, or that had been created for him. Nothing could have prepared him for being as swept up in Daryl Dixon as he was that morning.

It had been so long since they had been in this position, their body’s needed to relearn each other, sliding around like stubborn puzzle pieces until certain parts just clicked and Rick _remembered_. Latched on and arched up, ran his hands over familiar arms and sides that were layered with new muscles and scars, but still burned with the heat of furnace. So well used and hard above him, planes of solid muscle and weight pressing down that he had missed _so fucking much_. He hadn’t been able to do anything with men at all the past six years, nothing compared to Daryl, and there had been girls but they just weren’t the same - they weren’t this sturdy, this rough, held this much promise to rock him to his core and leave marks behind that no amount of distance or time could erase. An old dance not easily forgotten, and so seductive to just fall into - the need to be careful around each other was falling away like shedding skin until Rick was back to matching Daryl’s energy. His passion. His devotion, affection, and intensity all rolled into one blinding sequence of actions that burned through them both until nothing was left but stimulation and skin and heat.

And just like that Daryl was under him, Rick not even realizing he had flipped them in a burst of adrenaline and impulse until he was straddling the hunter’s thin hips and had somehow managed to pin a hand above Daryl’s head. But just the one. A blaze of challenge and excitement had shined in the other’s eyes with a smirk flirting at the sides of his lips. He used his other hand to get a grip in Rick’s hair and crashed their mouths back together in a hungry kiss that masked how impressed he had looked the moment before. It was heated, and playful, and violent, and _fun_ \- and _fuck_ Rick had missed it. Daryl’s half smile was pressed tight against his own as he tested Rick’s hold on his hand, making the deputy yearn for handcuffs sending his mind reeling in all directions unsavory and obscene. Daryl had broken the kiss to look up at the hand pinned to the grass and grin, and Rick had to wonder if he was thinking something similar. If the young Dixon had spent nights in bed lying awake thinking about him, imagining things like this. Suddenly his glib comments from days before about Rick being a cop took on a new light, and the fire that raged through Rick’s blood decidedly headed South.

They had stopped making out like teenagers for the moment, catching their breath as they heaved for air and took in their situation - Daryl’s expression more light and playful and _younger_ than he had looked the entire time Rick had been back in White Oak. He looked ten pounds lighter, fucking elated in his own reserved way, with a wicked but lively glow about him that Rick couldn’t help but adore; and Rick couldn’t stop _smiling_. Soaking in everything like a sponge and holding it so close to his perpetually tattered heart that it encompassed anything dark or remorseful. Everything he had wallowed in before dimmed to near nothingness and all that was left was a bright warmth more brilliant than the sun, leaving him feeling giddy and high in the best of ways. Nothing else mattered. Not the words they had said, or the house that still loomed beyond the trees like a dark shadow, or anything else that had been sinister and threatening. All that mattered was Daryl had his hands on him, holding on as if Rick would drift away like a wisp of smoke if he didn’t, and looking at him in all the ways that used to make his knees go weak. Like he loved him.

His hand shifted up from the harsh grip he had held around Daryl’s wrist, pressing their palms together and threading his fingers through the redneck’s until they were interlaced so securely Daryl had to look up at them once more. He had returned the grip without even thinking about it, his expression melting to something awestruck like he couldn’t believe it was still something so _easy_ and instinctual. Rick couldn’t have stopped himself from kissing Daryl again in that moment if his life had depended on it. A different kiss, soft and deep and pouring love into every bit of the action until they couldn’t breathe. It didn’t last longer than a minute, Daryl too stunned to keep it going and Rick only pulling back far enough to lean his forehead heavily against Daryl’s and try to steady his racing heart. Almost too scared to open his eyes, not knowing when he closed them, and the surreal feeling had made his heart skip in horror at the fear this could all still be a dream. The most cruel one to date if it was, because for the first time in as long as Rick could remember he felt _whole_ and like somehow they would pull through whatever they were about to face. A comforting security that he’d lacked for so long he almost couldn’t dare to trust it fully, but once again that intoxicating and undoubting faith he had in the man lying beneath him on the swamp floor flooded everything past the point of uncertainty. So familiar and nostalgic Rick’s heartstrings were abused and tied up in knots at the intensity of it.

“Rick?” Daryl breathed the word more than whispered it, with the two of them pressed so close.

With a careful shift that put a breath of space between them, Rick opened his eyes and told him as honest and real as he could “I missed you.” Just as quiet, but with so much conviction it felt louder than Daryl’s reserved question. It had too much history behind it, too much truth, and Rick had to watch as Daryl’s expression shattered before him - revealing the most hurt and heartbroken look that felt too familiar and nostalgic for his own heart to take.

“I know,” Daryl said with that crack of emotion he could never outgrow, “I miss’d you too.” His free hand was touching Rick’s neck and face, but Rick could barely feel it. Not through the regret and agony that was open in Daryl’s eyes as they skittered across his face. “Fuck I miss’d you, an’ I’m so sorry.” Rick let Daryl untangle their clasped hands, let Daryl roll him again but he didn’t climb back on top, just laid them on their sides and pressed as close as he could. Nosing at him, leaving kisses carefully and hurriedly like he shouldn’t be allowed to do so, all the while repeating, “’m so’sorry” over and over again like a mantra until Rick began to kiss him back once more. If only to quiet the wounded mutterings that sounded like they were being ripped painfully from the other. It only took a few more minutes of careful kisses for the heat and comfort to return, and then Daryl was back slung across his lap and leaning over him in a looming presence so natural and familiar that it eased the air between them.

Daryl leaned back a bit to look down at Rick splayed on the forest floor, and if he looked anything like the redneck did then Rick knew he looked a mess - like they had both rolled down a hill after a rainstorm a couple times just for the fun of it. Mud and bits of grass and leaves sticking to his clothes and in his hair, disheveled from both men running their hands all over each other, in fact Rick knew his shirt was untucked and riding up from the cool grass settled against the small of his back. It was also what drew Daryl’s attention the most.

With careful hands Daryl was tracing the skin that showed, and it took a moment for Rick to realize he was tracing the bruises that were still dark and blooming darkly across his hips. His fingertips brushed under the shirt tails of his button down, sliding a bit under them to see that the discoloration continued across Rick’s sides, and the frown that pulled at his lips showed his dislike of the discovery.

“How far up d’they go?” he asked quietly, voice a low rumble in his chest that mimicked the thunder clouds rolling in on the horizon. All gravel roads and empty packs of cigarettes roughing up his deep Southern drawl.

“I don’t know,” Rick told him honestly, just as quiet in that way that pitched his voice low without whispering. “I stopped lookin’.” Rick had always thought the marks would fade eventually, and he wasn’t taking off his shirt for anyone so really he hadn’t noticed if the bruises continued up across his chest or his shoulders. There weren’t any on his neck or face, so that saved him from really having to be concerned with them at all.

He got a skeptical look for his answer, and Daryl’s gaze burned a trail down his chest and exposed skin until they were matched with his hands, tracing back to his hips and edging at his waistband. Rick’s breath would’ve hitched if he hadn’t covered it with a thick exhale, swallowing hard at Daryl’s inspection.

“How low?” Daryl asked, his voice taking a dangerous pitch that could’ve been anger, jealousy, or arousal - and in that moment Rick didn’t care if it was a mix of all three. Because that deep growl was enough to set his blood back on fire.

“They don’t,” Rick said with firm certainty, matching Daryl’s hard, searching eyes when he chanced a glance back at the deputy’s face. “I always made sure, they don’ go lower.” The fortitude in his words must have been enough for the Dixon, because with a silent nod he was back to looking at the bruises and tracing gentle hands over them. All callouses and heat from his tan skin that left a cool sensation behind as he moved them, like a balm and much akin to the feeling of mint leaves - just as it had the last time he’d had his hands on him. Although this time it was much more sensual than that, and Rick was having trouble keeping his breath even.

Shifting back a few inches, as smooth and graceful as he always was, Daryl slid his knees along the slick forest floor until he was straddling Rick’s thighs and knees instead of his waist. Then, with more bravery than Rick had _ever_ witnessed from the other, he watched as Daryl leaned down and pressed his lips to one hipbone on the darkest spot of a handprint shaped bruise. Rick exhaled shakily, not knowing when he had started holding his breath, and soon was forced to stop watching Daryl’s ministrations as his eyes slid shut in bliss. His head tilted all the way back into the grass, trying his best not to arch into Daryl’s mouth as he sent trails of open mouthed kisses hot and wet where he could reach. Daryl meticulously reclaimed every inch of bruised skin he could see - and even started to push up at Rick’s shirt to reach more while he finished the other side. His hands burned against Rick’s skin, right through him like a forest fire, until it caught up to his lungs and the other _had_ to be able to feel Rick’s chest rise and fall as he heaved to breathe through the heat of it.

“F-Fuck, Daryl,” Rick started, not able to get out the plea to _stop_ \- because he was a mess. His hands hadn’t found purchase in the strands of grass that gave way to his twisting too easily, so they had found solace in Daryl’s broad shoulders and tangled in his short hair. His grip only seeming to urge the other on, despite his intent to pull the other’s scorching kisses from his hips and quivering core muscles. But it was so hard to stop the other, he was _really fucking good_ at whatever he was doing to Rick’s nerve-endings, each one lighting up and singing even after Daryl left a certain spot to explore another, and it was turning Rick on like nothing had in a _long_ time. He could feel his pulse in every limb, the beat thundering in his ears, which ultimately helped him block out the words he really didn’t want to utter into the thick air surrounding them. “Daryl, stop.” The way he shakily breathed the words said he wanted the exact opposite, but Daryl listened to him and immediately looked up. The lack of warmth and attention to his exposed skin was the most maddening thing to experience, but he knew they had to stop for a moment and breathe or this was going to tumble in a direction that would end very quickly.

There was no way Daryl couldn’t feel how hard he was. Before he had stopped mouthing at Rick’s hipbones his chest had been near flush with Rick’s groin, and Rick’s jeans were only a little tighter than the hunter’s so it was at least a little contained - but it was still really _obvious_. He followed Rick’s quick glance downward like he hadn’t noticed at all, and only managed a smug upturn of his lips in response. His pale blue eyes darted back up to Rick’s, burning and singed with a devilish sort of knowing, and rocked his own hips down into Rick’s leg so he knew _exactly_ where the other stood as well. His well-worn pants were so loose Rick wasn’t sure how _he_ had missed that either. Either way, they both had quickly gotten on the same page, and Rick was  reminded of another reason that what he and Daryl had just could not be matched by another person. They’d been circling each other like wolves for the past few weeks, even when it was all biting words and sharp glares; so all it was going to take was a small push to have them crash back together in the same level of intimacy that they had parted with. There was no more dancing, no dates, no careful steps to not offend each other or any more talking about ‘what they were’. Rick just wanted Daryl’s hands on him, his mouth, anything the other would offer. They had gotten the difficult parts out of the way, spent agonizing hours and days over them, and now - there wasn’t anything to be afraid of anymore.

“...We really doin’ this right here?” Rick asked in a teasing tone, still breathless but knowing he needed to continue since he had stopped them in the first place.

“Why not?” Daryl said with traces of the grin teasing his lips as he leaned back over where Rick had propped himself up on his elbows. “No place bett’r, ‘f ya ask me.” The closeness brought back the heat and humidity front and center, each husky word spoken seeming to stick to Rick’s damp skin and cloud the air making it thicker with each breath. They had fooled around in the swamp before, in tall grasses by a pond Daryl had led them to, in the back of Merle’s pick-up beneath the canopies that enclosed them in a bubble of stifling feverish ambiance - all of which, when combined with their activities, left them drenched and near suffocating. Although it was hard to mind when the air was saturated with plantlife, mud, and Georgia rains. The sticky sensation that should have been muggy was more cleansing than anything. But despite all of that they had never been this immersed in the forest before, rolling on the ground between the trees. It was something that should have been child-like, but to Rick it felt so intimate that he couldn’t help but admit Daryl was right. There was no place better to reconnect in any way they could - although he couldn’t deny he was hoping for a more biblical interpretation.

“I’m thinkin’ yer right,” Rick told him with a sly, fond smile that burned with the same low embers of sensuality Daryl was practically radiating. Clouding the air even more with promises of things just as obscene and suggestive, filthy that had nothing to do with the grass and dirt. “Don’t matter it’s hot an’ full a’muck, makin’ us wet and muddy. Just like old times. It’s too bad ya aren’t using it ta paint-” Daryl leaned in slow and cut off his words, kissed him heated and slow, but the words made a grin twitch and pull at his expression beneath Rick’s lips.

“Why’s that?” Daryl asked, sounding more interested in teasing Rick and rendering him unable to speak as he nosed at his jaw and the spot beneath his ear that made the air rush out of his lungs. “Ya like me havin’ my hands all ov’r ya?”

“Drives me crazy everytime ya draw all over me,” Rick admitted huskily, nosing at the other as well and pushing his way back to reach Daryl’s mouth, kissing him searingly to get his point across. “Used ta think it was the drawin’s themselves, should’a known better-” Daryl cut him off again, another kiss so strong and forceful it had Rick’s head tilting back until he shifted back off his elbows and his shoulders hit the swamp floor once more. It seemed that was where Daryl had wanted him, because the hunter retreated slow and purposeful with one more kiss to Rick’s sore mouth that clung to the abused skin in the sticky heat. His lips had to be red and raw from the combination of their fervor and Daryl’s scruff, but Rick couldn’t help but relish in the throbbing sting that sometimes came to light, or how he couldn’t feel the smile on his face anymore. His mouth so swollen and kiss-bitten he couldn’t know what his lips were even doing until Daryl’s were pressed back against his.

Although the smile must’ve dropped off his face as Daryl leaned back far enough to inspect him on the ground, and without any further preamble found a puddle somewhere beside them and proceeded to drag his fingers through the mud. He used the slick substance of God knows what and drew a line down the center of Rick’s face; from the top of his forehead, all the way down his nose and lips to curve under his chin. Rick was slack-jawed for a moment, thinking the other man was about to crack a shit-eating grin and then smear more mud all over his face like the asshole he loved to be sometimes - it was kind of the perfect timing for it - but something happened between the split second where he traced the line down Rick’s neck to the hollow where his collar bones met, and where the line faded as he ran out of mud. Something bright and burning sparked in his eyes, altering the playful atmosphere into something far more sensual. Rick’s own gaze was locked so fiercely on that scorching look he didn’t even see Daryl reach over for more until he had both hands of Rick’s face and had continued drawing lines down both sides of his cheeks, over his jaw and back down his neck once more.

His shirt was being undone before either had caught their breath, mud staining the fabric and Daryl near ripping it open in his haste. Rick was about to help him after a moment, but as soon as the skin was exposed Daryl’s hands traced down Rick’s chest and abdomen hungrily. With the other’s eyes ablaze like that Rick couldn’t imagine doing anything other than laying there expectantly; patient and letting Daryl do whatever he wanted. Daryl looked like he wanted to eat him alive, and Rick was sure he wouldn’t object in the slightest if that were the case.

But instead, with that same determination that was soaked and singed in carnal intentions, Daryl coated his hands in mud and went back to work. Connecting the lines from Rick’s collar bones and tracing them down in broader strips, more complex designs, too focused for them to not represent _something_ and that should’ve scared Rick a little. But then Daryl started leaving handprints in his wake, in specific angles, sometimes only his fingers touching Rick’s sides - and he had to recoat his hands multiple times to keep up the pattern. It didn’t take Rick long to realize Daryl was covering the bruises. Every hand print, every indention of fingers, until both he and the swamp had reclaimed every inch of discolored skin on Rick’s body.

Daryl’s hands glided across twitching muscle and over-sensitive skin, leaving designs that were for his eyes only, because Rick stayed where he was and focused mostly on staying still and breathing. He choked on groans, swallowed them thickly but sometimes a deep sound in the back of his throat would escape with an exhale; the slow, tedious work was driving him _mad_ and he wanted so badly to just drag Daryl down into another kiss and plaster himself to the other. Wanted to do so many filthy, obscene things made even more so with how dirty they both were, but he couldn’t tell if Daryl was actually doing something important - or if this was some _insanely_ eccentric version of foreplay that only seemed to make sense to the two of them. Daryl’s rough fingertips tracing every line, plane, and muscle of Rick’s body splayed on the ground, lighting up his nerve-endings and making arousal hit him _hard_ when he struck a sensitive one like a landmine. Rick didn’t know which areas of his body would cause this reaction that hitched his breath and had his instincts to arch up blind everything, but Daryl was playing him like a damn piano.  He explored and logged away every spot, the gliding dance across Rick’s aching skin brought him to the teetering edge of insanity and was so _damn_ good.

But Daryl slowed, leaning back to admire his work, and smirked satisfied at what he saw. It had nothing to do with the mud caked in patterns on his chest and torso he knew. Because Rick was a flushed, sweaty, panting _mess_ \- and he was about to kiss that smug fucking smirk right off the other’s handsome face, so hard it’d leave bruises. But he managed to contain himself, and leveled an expectant stare so sharp and vigilant it left no room for argument.

“Your turn.”

There was something so primal, so instinctively right about Daryl when he was soaked in his lifestyle; slicked with sweat from the swamp, painted up by his own hands, and deadly steady in his actions. It was his element. Rick loved seeing the hunter that confident, that wild and yet so contained. The way a raging river flowed and tore through a field but still kept to its natural path. Daryl had been watching him in a way Rick now realized he was familiar with; every time he had participated in a ritual Daryl had looked so _gratified_ once Rick was prepared, like seeing Rick in that same element was the most satisfying and erotic thing he could witness. And maybe it was. Because now that look was open and amplified to the point it was searing, and if Daryl was going to get his view of perfection then Rick wanted one as well.

That’s why his statement had been a demand, not a request - and Daryl obliged with only a slight turn of his lips in amusement.

With practiced hands that were precise and insanely accurate, Daryl did the same markings from weeks before in the elemental ritual at the plantation house. Parallel lines flowing down his face outlining the shape of his skull and his high cheekbones, cutting over his jaw and down his own neck where he did a marking that was very different, his palms leaving large handprints on each side of his neck that curved over his shoulders. Rick had sat up to watch, and started tugging up the hem of the hunter’s shirt to help pull it over his head and give the other more access to the rest of his upper body. He couldn’t help but hold on to the other’s hips and glide fingers purposefully up his side as Daryl worked, touching what he could before the patterns started to drift lower. If he didn’t know any better, Rick would’ve said that Daryl was doing a very hurried design, covering as much skin as he could as quick as possible and in lines that were not so perfect. A smile pulled his swollen lips at the thought, knowing the Dixon wasn’t that reckless. Though he sure as shit wasn’t being as careful as he could have and he kept darting glances at Rick’s face until he seemed satisfied that he was presentable enough.

“Does it mean anything?” Rick asked, eyeing the broad chest and shoulders that now were just as caked in mud as he was, itching to reach up and trace the patterns as well.

“No’really,” Daryl answered with a deep, husky tenor that proclaimed he was _very much_ done talking.

Rick cut a wicked look up at him. “So ya won’t mind if I mess it up?” he didn’t even bother to wait for a response as he dragged his hands through the half-dried remnants of the forest floor that was covering what he really wanted to be tasting with his tongue. Daryl didn’t bother with a response either, just crashed into him, their bodies pressed so tight the lines of mud blurred and smeared between them.

\--

Thunder rolled closer, louder, charging the humid air with energy that crackled and licked around them - tasted like lightning when the two men gasped for air hungrily. Both were too intoxicated with the heavy scents of sex and sweat all saturated with the damp earth around them to give even a fleeting thought that this might be too soon. That they were toppling back into something that had been so strong when they were teenagers. That they should think about the wear and tear the years had left on their rekindled relationship. That they were going to have to face how shredded and depleted it had gotten, forgotten in the darkest recesses of their minds. But this was too fresh, too real and hot, archaic to the point of being dangerous - that sent the primal need for release and completion rushing forward above any other thoughts. Past the relief they had experienced at first, the blinding happiness that had encompassed them. Now all they wanted was to reach deep underneath each other’s skin, relearn each other from the inside out and feel _whole_ in a way they both hadn’t felt in a long time. In a way that was simple and, to them, the straightest path to connecting again.

They were guys after all.

The kissing didn’t last long, Rick keeping Daryl dragged down as close as he could get, kissing him so thoroughly his tongue mapped out the other’s _teeth_. But Daryl had gotten a knee between his legs to spread them, and had been grinding down in a rolling motion that was amping them both up so quick it turned the searing kisses to open-mouthed panting and mingling of hot breath as Rick rode the motions, only lost for a moment before he began to contribute to the friction. Bucking his own hips up in time when Daryl rocked back, strong and tilting at just the right angle so they moved as one. He was used to having a very heavy revolver on one side, so he knew he could jut them up harshly enough they rocked against Daryl’s pelvis and chased the breath out of his lungs.

They couldn’t tell if it was the approaching storm or the enclosed air in the swamp itself, but the air was becoming very thin between them, and oddly that made the whole experience that much more arousing. Rick’s blood pumped faster as he panted for oxygen, the ground below them just as hot now from how long he’d been on his back - and although he could’ve flipped their positions easily, a big part of him liked being there underneath the solid weight of Daryl’s body. He could plant his feet and use the ground as leverage to move his hips into Daryl’s in a motion that always made the other stutter. Rick loved relearning different ways to drive the younger man wild, knock him off his game when the pleasure hit him like a punch to the gut. But he _also_ loved this assertive, more sexually-confident stride the Dixon seemed to possess now; though Rick wasn’t sure where it had _come from_. He had never been like this before.

As if reading his thoughts, Daryl shifted half-back onto his knees and used one strong arm to lift himself up. Ceased the steady, intense grind they had fallen into enough to reach between them and undo Rick’s jeans as quick as he could. Deft fingers sure and confident in his movements, if only a little turned around, and Rick had to once again imagine how often the other man had undid his own jeans to be able to do it with one hand. He was sitting up before he could finish that thought, also working at opening Daryl’s pants and tugging at the open fly to work it down enough to free his erection. The hunter pushed on Rick’s shoulder to send him back to the ground, crawling up his body once more to lick into his mouth, the deputy losing his ability to inhale or exhale properly when Daryl’s rough hands wrapped around his own rock hard dick. _Fuck_ , this escalated quickly but neither seemed to care as they panted for breath and ground into each other’s hands. Becoming intimately familiar with every angle of hips, paces both erratic and steadfast, the places they slid together sending them back into that slow grind that locked their legs together and built the pleasure up into a monumental wave that was ready to crest and crash over them.

If either tried to speak through gritted teeth, or on the breathy growls that escaped them with each exhale, the words were unintelligible. Although Rick was sure he kept saying “fuck yes” over and over, or maybe that was Daryl speaking so close Rick could taste the words on his tongue. The deputy pressed biting kisses at the other’s mouth when he could manage, riding the rocking motions easily with his own leg locked tight behind Daryl’s knee. The combined motion with the other’s hand working him like that, with those same deft fingers that had played his body so well not moments before, was driving Rick _insane_. He couldn’t think beyond the trance of the slow grind, pulsating with his rapid-fire heartbeat, hot blood pumping an intoxicating buzz through every limb until his whole body felt on fire with pleasure and this insatiable _need_ . He wanted to fucking crawl inside Daryl, melt and meld his body into the one above him before he self-combusted all over the muddy forest floor. The hunter was practically fucking him into the ground, and the drive of those thrusts, the way Rick plastered himself to the other’s pelvis and rocked back, made his already strained breath hitch at the thought of what that could be like. He hadn’t even entertained the thought in _years_ , and now he was getting a very generous taste.

“ _Daryl_ ,” he managed to say, the syllables heavy and slurred on his tongue around a groan as he arched up again, head turned up to get caught in the grass once more, but this time Daryl took advantage and licked a hot stripe up his throat that sent Rick’s sensory over-load past any point he could handle, and he came hard into Daryl’s hand with a loud moan that echoed back at them among the trees. Daryl was only a few second behind, his hips moving faster into Rick’s fist until he was coming too, the low groan pressed into the skin at Rick’s neck and shoulder so he could feel it echo through his bones. It was a wonderful combination with the elated buzzing that had taken over his body, soaked through with sweat and mud and euphoric bliss.

Fuck, he’d missed this. Daryl’s heart was thundering so hard Rick could feel it in his own chest. He was just as hot, his drenched skin stuck and clung to Rick’s own as he pushed himself up onto his elbows to look down at him. The moment stretched with only the sounds of the swamp around them, mingling with their heavy breaths and slowly slowing pulses that Rick knew Daryl could feel just as intensely. He didn’t give the redneck the chance to second guess, to let any doubts take root in his thoughts, just closed the space one more time and kissed him softly. It was a hell of a lot more gentle than they had been to each other most of the day, and was probably needed if Daryl’s lips and mouth ached as much as Rick’s did. At least the hunter had the ability to smile a little into the kiss. Rick still couldn’t tell if he was doing the same anymore.

With one particular shift that was aimed to ease some of the weight Daryl had been hefting onto Rick’s entire torso both realized they were practically glued together. But something else seemed to come to Daryl, so he went ahead and peeled himself off of the man beneath him and muttered, “Shit - don’ move.” Rick didn’t have the heart to tell him that wouldn’t be a problem, he was still trying to make sure he had an accurate representation of feeling in every limb and appendage that didn’t consist of a buzzing sensation.

Staying where he was, straddling Rick’s thighs, Daryl leaned over and grabbed his discarded shirt as quickly as he could, and began to mop up the mess of sweat, mud and release all over Rick’s stomach. Although he was almost laughing as he did so, exhaling that huff of air that said he was cracking up inside. “Can’ let it touch th’ ground.”

Rick couldn’t help himself at that statement. “... _why_?” he asked long and drawn out, trying to decide if he should be laughing too or smacking the man upside the head, although he wasn’t sure why yet.

With a grin that only pulled at one side of his mouth, a small gesture that wouldn’t look like anything to anyone else but Rick knew like the back of his hand, Daryl ducked his head down as he worked to keep it hidden and said, “Some of those markin’s weren’ nonsense, actuall’y meant thin’s. Don’ rememb’r ‘em all now,” he admitted with another huff, the smirk trying to creep across his mouth and stretch both sides, but all it did was make his eyes light up. “But tha’ means we could’a done somethin’ the forest may no’ like - or like a’littl’ too much. We’re so close ta blaspheme it really shoul’n’ be funny.”

“Then why are ya laughing?” Rick accused, narrowing his eyes but the other’s practically gleeful expression was just so contagious Rick couldn’t help but begin to grin back.

“Ain’ laughin’,” Daryl chided in delight, and Rick pulled him back down for another kiss just to taste that smile the other couldn’t seem to contain. The hunter kept his body carefully bowed upward to avoid the two getting stuck together again, although he kissed back enthusiastically and only parted enough to push himself up on straight arms and continue cleaning them. “Sex ‘n a ritual is ‘bout as bad as blood magik,” he explained, not even stumbling on his words despite how Rick’s senses sharpened at the mention of ‘sex’ and ‘ritual’. Daryl cut a look up at him quickly to see his expression, noticing how he’d stiffened a bit at what he’d said. “-an’ we don’ need tha’ shit right now.”

“No we don’t,” Rick agreed, pausing long enough to check that Daryl had gotten most of the mess. He had to let out a sharp bark of laughter once it was clear the danger was behind them. Their fucking lives. “Only you would turn foreplay into a ritual by accident.”

“Shut up.”

Rick missed the weight across his thighs as soon as Daryl moved, the task of cleaning them up finished and his shirt now balled up to avoid anything getting soaked up by the forest floor. The redneck scooted closer, bumping Rick’s shoulder absently and leaning back on his arms to look out of the treeline at the plantation property. Rick meant to follow his gaze too but he couldn’t stop staring at the other’s face, staying keenly aware of everywhere they touched from their shoulders to their hips, blazing hot all along one side and solid as stone. This was still real. He kept repeating to himself Daryl was really there with him - just in case it slipped through his fingers a moment later.

“We’re gonna hav’ ta go back,” Daryl told him without looking at him, watching the dark smudge of a house made even more so by the thunderclouds almost directly over their heads. The sun was barely managing to break through the thinnest places, and soon it would be gone completely. Rick wasn’t sure if he meant because of the storm ready to break at any moment, or because they had too much left to do with the house - especially with all the new information Rick had learned the night before. But either way, he knew Daryl was right.

“We’ll have ta hose off before we go back in the house,” he pointed out, in his own way agreeing to the statement without making to move from where they sat. Despite Daryl’s attempt at clean up, the two were still caked in mud and their clothes had soaked up a lot of it like a sponge, kept wet by the sweat slicking their skin. His grandmother would skin them alive if she knew they walked down her halls like that, or if she found one speck of the swamp tracked into her house.

“Rain might take care of tha’ if we take too long,” Daryl muttered, pale gaze darting up to the clouds that had begun to grow darker and rumble hungrily in the sky. But Rick couldn’t make himself get up, in fact his hands curled into the grass as he thought about standing up and walking back towards the silent sentinel of a building sitting up the hill. Daryl did look over at him then, his silence was too thick with roiling thoughts not to catch the hunter’s attention, but Rick didn’t know how to justify his reasoning for staying there without sounding childish.

“I’m not ready to go yet.” It was all he could manage to say, doing his best not to voice everything else he was thinking. That he was too worried about what might happen when they got back to the house. That if they left their little bubble of memory and resolution that things could shift back to how they were this morning. There was a lot they still needed to talk about, explain and put right between them, and there were a lot of things missing in each man’s confession that needed to be brought to light. It wasn’t going to be easy, Rick was prepared for that, but from where they sat their on the ground everything was okay - for the moment. He wasn’t too enthusiastic to accelerate a change in that in any way.

Daryl’s silence beside him wasn’t as heavy, in fact it almost felt peaceful in a way - accepting and basking in something Rick couldn’t see; so he glanced over at the younger man only to see Daryl was already watching him back. As if to reassure the turmoil Daryl had no way of knowing the particulars of, he shifted closer and leaned in to press a kiss to Rick’s mouth, and Rick could not get over how natural that one gesture felt. Something that was so easy to fall back into, and never failed to ease the tension between his shoulders. Everything was going to be fine, that was the only way Rick could translate the look Daryl had directed at him, because the other didn’t say anything to him. He didn’t have to. He just pushed himself up off the ground, and extended a hand to Rick to help him stand as well. When he grabbed the other’s dirt stained hand, Rick was pleasantly unsurprised to find the hunter could lift him up easily, hauling him to his feet like he weighed nothing.

“You really gonna hose me off?” Daryl asked with a lilt that gave away the small smirk still settled on his lips. Rick laughed at that, the rest of his apprehension falling away at the flirtatious teasing. Yes, they’d be just fine.

“Probably the first time ya bathed properly in a week, enjoy it.”

\--

With only a few minutes to spare the two men managed to clean themselves off as best they could before the skies opened up, the summer rain lightly cooling the grounds as it began to spit from the sky delicately. The darkness of the clouds gave a hint that it wouldn’t stay gentle for long, so they scurried into the mud room and shucked the rest of their dirt-stained clothes. Rick threw a towel at Daryl’s face when he caught the other’s gaze lingering, staring at the vast open expanses of skin as if he hadn’t been half-naked on the forest floor earlier. But when Daryl pulled the towel off his head roughly and continued to stare Rick finally followed his gaze - expecting to see something there or something wrong but finding nothing out of place. His skin looked completely normal, there was nothing there.

Not even a bruise.

Running his own hands and a towel over the damp skin, Rick shot a confused look Daryl’s direction when the paleness didn’t give way to the dark handprints that should have been there. “Was I like this when ya cleaned me off in the swamp?” he asked, somehow not able to place if he’d even noticed there wasn’t anything beneath the mud when they were hosing down outside. He’d been… preoccupied with other things, like Daryl sopping wet in the fading Georgia sun.

“I don’ rememb’r,” Daryl admitted, having crossed the few feet between them to also poke and prod at the unblemished skin. His hands were feather light and still insanely warm to the touch, sending goosebumps across Rick’s rapidly cooling skin under the air conditioning vents. His grandmother liked to keep the house near arctic conditions, so the contrast left even more of an impact.

“Don’t ya usually notice everythang?” Rick questioned, the words sounding more even than they should have. The hunter was insanely observant, one of the best as far as physical surroundings went, only really bested by Rick’s first boss when he was a rookie in King County. He and Shane used to swear that man could see through walls.

Daryl huffed his non-laugh, rubbing at the skin on Rick’s hip, causing the deputy to shiver although he was sure that wasn’t the younger man’s intent. He almost looked to be trying to rub the color off, as if the bruises still lay beneath the surface. “Well, I was a’little distract’d,” he muttered, finally cutting a look up at Rick and taking advantage of the closeness to inspect his face carefully. Rick just couldn’t help but notice they were wearing _a lot_ less clothing than they had even out in the swamp, and he had to wonder if the rest of the day was going to be like this. Or the next. Maybe the whole week, at the rate they were going. “Ya couldn’ seem ta stop kissin’ me.”

“Says the man who can’t keep his hands off me,” Rick pointed out with a small smirk, leaning into the touch at his waist for emphasis. “Or keep me in my clothes.”

“You did this one t’ yerself,” Daryl chided lightly, finally removing his hands and putting a few feet distance between them as if to make his point. “An’ I wasn’t starin’ near as hard as you were when ya hosed me down,” he accused with a squint that shouldn’t have made Rick’s heart flutter in his chest, but he smiled all the same at being caught.

“Fine,” Rick said in defeat, reaching back into the laundry room to grab a shirt and sweatpants to toss in the hunter’s direction - aiming for his face again childishly, but Daryl caught them easily that time. “Jus’ put some clothes on, since we’re both powerless to our basic urges.”

Daryl hummed appreciatively, a smirk firmly in place as he muttered, “not yet wer’ not,” and yanked the shirt over his head in that way he’d perfected at age ten - the whole thing over his head, shoulders, and torso so quick his arms going through the sleeves were the last thing to happen. It made Rick grin, biting his lip to try and contain it lest the other thought he was laughing at him. Although by this point Rick could have burst out in a fit of raging laughter and Daryl would’ve just rolled his eyes at him, many of the remaining barriers between them had been torn down that morning and what was left was deceivingly easy. It felt so open and fresh, the space around them and even the very air they breathed. Rick couldn’t help but enjoy it, bask in it, hold onto it for as long as he could because it felt so _comfortable_ and familiar. He knew they had to talk stuff out, the past six years wasn’t going to just disappear between them, and he had a lot of bitterness still sticking to every battered heartstring like stubborn cobwebs. But in that moment it didn’t feel like this monumental obstacle anymore, just another thing they would make it through. Together. Because honestly, that had always been the smoothest route for the both of them, and Rick was so tired of fighting the uphill battle alone.

“C’mon, I’ll make more coffee,” Rick insisted, slipping into his own pair of soft pants and a white t-shirt before leading the way back into the kitchen.

The rain had dimmed everything and cast pale shadows across the room, cutting edges in places and pooling in others along the corners; it felt more peaceful than sinister, but Rick still flicked on the yellow fluorescent lighting to chase them away. Daryl retook his place at the kitchen island, sitting down across from where Rick stood dumping the cold coffee into the sink, and the deputy couldn’t help but feel a warm sense of nostalgia wash over him at the sight. The younger man had changed over the years for sure. His hair shorter and out of his eyes, his face cut more angular along his cheeks, and the soft, patchy scruff that framed his mouth and covered his chin looked darker and like it belonged there. His broad shoulders seemed even more so in the dark grey T-shirt Rick had given him, another of his Police Academy remnants that was a little too small for the hunter across the chest, but it brought back a lot of memories that had nothing to do with the Northern Atlanta Police Academy.

Instead it echoed of years ago, further past the event that had sent them spiraling in different directions, to a different rainy afternoon where Daryl Dixon sat in the same kitchen. Damp, clean, wearing his clothes and watching the room carefully - although now his gaze landed to Rick and skittered away more often than not, and it just made Rick smile unabashedly as he worked. It felt so good, so familiar, and also like it could have been something that was normal for them - once upon a time. Rick’s dazed and blissed out mind stretched into a distant possibility that hadn’t been touched on in years - in fact he thought he had burned it down in a rampage of hate and hurt in those early years after Daryl had sent him away. But there it was, a stray thought of a future that still had the Dixon occupying the same space as him, drifting into the foray as light as a cotton blossom on the breeze. And just as flimsy. He shot it down and reeled himself back in before he pondered on it too long. It was _way_ too fucking soon for those thoughts, to even be looking down a road such as that, no matter how nice to know that it at least existed. It was dangerous to hope, to dream for something when Rick couldn’t say what the two of them would be this time next week - and he had spent enough time trapped in longing. What they had right now was too fragile and new a thing to be testing such waters, and for today Rick was going to focus on enjoying what was actually there. For however long it may be.

Daryl had turned back to his books, flipping through the pages idly, although the silence wasn’t an uncomfortable one. It was filled with the soft sounds of the rain hitting the window, pulsing between heavier and more gentle as different clouds passed over, and they kept it that way until Rick put a hot cup of coffee in front of the other and moved to sit on a barstool as well. Around the corner to let the younger man keep his books spread out in front of him.

“So,” Rick began, catching Daryl’s attention gently, “the spirit in my room.” It was something they needed to get back to, and Daryl heaved a sigh in agreement before downing half of his cup of coffee. “It had a lot to say.”

“I rememb’r,” Daryl muttered, eyes a little brighter as the caffeine started to kick in. He only paused before turning and giving Rick his undivided attention. “Tell me all it said, everythin’ that happe’d.” So Rick did, only hesitating at the beginning where he had been kissing the dream-version of the man in front of him - but knowing that after the morning they had, he couldn’t skimp on any details. They owed each other much more than that; and if he wanted Daryl to be just as honest later when he talked about whatever he and his family had been up to, then he needed to do the same. He watched as Daryl’s jaw clenched shut, not really relaxing until Rick had begun to talk to the spirit in his dream, and how his eyes sharpened when he mentioned the thing that had been in the same shape of the creature Moreau had created. His gaze got distant and searching, as if reading pages far away, so much so that Rick paused in his explanation, in the middle of the spirit yelling at him to get him to understand that the thing on the first floor _wanted_ out.

“What is it?” he asked, Daryl’s eyes twitching back to his as if he just realized he hadn’t really been looking at Rick.

“It wants out?”

“Yeah,” Rick answered slowly, still staring at the other hard. “You were thinkin’ about somethang, though - what is it?”

Daryl kept quiet as he put his thoughts in order, but it only lasted a few heartbeats - a vast difference from before, that morning even, showing he wasn’t holding back his opinions anymore. He wasn’t going to keep Rick in the dark any longer, and that alone lightened the vice of worry that had its grip around the deputy’s chest. “It’s been tryin’ ta get your attention,” Daryl told him plainly, and Rick nodded - to him that much had been obvious. “But yer head’s been so full’a stuff, wit’ yer grandpappy dyin’ and all yer shit wit’ me, tha’ it didn’ know how else ta get t’ya.” He seemed to be pushing down the defensive anger that wanted to lash back out at what the spirit had done to Rick over the past weeks, and that discipline was something Rick respected. He knew the other had it in him; when his hot-headed tendencies didn’t overtake every other thought Daryl had the most level head, and could ground himself more solidly than anyone Rick knew. He’d make a great cop, detective even.

“It wen’ about it the _wrong_ fuckin’ way, but it was jus’ tryin’ ta get ya ta listen. Yer dreams are things that are constantly changin’ and movin’ subconsciously, so this was how it thought ta keep ya in one place.” He sighed through his nose heavily and took another deep drag of coffee before continuing. “Tha’ thing that looked like Moreau’s pet? It wasn’ really there, it was anoth’r shape - anoth’r way ta make ya pay attention.”

“It said… _what do I have to do to make you see_ ,” Rick muttered, remembered the dark shape looming over him. All sharp teeth and empty, hollow eyes. _What do you want?_

Daryl nodded sharply. “Only aft’r ya start’d payin’ attention - thinkin’ a’bout the things it want’d ya ta focus on - did it go back ta bein’ me.”

“A younger you,” Rick told him quietly. “You looked about eighteen, your hair was longer.”

He nodded slowly in understanding. “Ya probably respond’d ta tha’ version bett’r.” With a shadow of a smile that was almost shy, Daryl finally looked down at his empty coffee mug and mumbled, “ya liked it long’r?”

“I like ya always.”

Daryl scoffed roughly, keeping his eyes down but Rick could see his lips still twitched upwards against his will. “Sap.”

“You love it,” Rick accused with a grin of his own, clearing away their mugs and got up to start in on cleaning their mess from breakfast that morning. Daryl watched him move as if debating following him, but also like it was just one of a dozen things that were running through his mind.

“‘M worri’d it’s gonna b’worse now,” he finally admitted after a few quiet minutes, catching Rick’s attention over the sound of running water and dishes clanking together in the sink. For a moment he wasn’t sure what Daryl meant, trying to think back through their long labyrinth of conversations and all the side-routes they had taken in between. Was he talking about the spirit in his room? It had told Rick a lot of what it’d been trying to get across the past few weeks, so why would the dreams be worse now? Daryl leveled a look at Rick’s confusion that must have been apparent on his face. “We ain’t exactly bein’ subtle.”

Oh.

“No,” Rich shook his head, tucking his head back down as he went back to scrubbing at the frying pan soaking in the sink. “She didn’ really mean anythang like that, I don’ think - just a means to an end, like you said.”

“ _She?_ ” Daryl asked sharply, Rick didn’t even have to look up to know the harshness of the stare the hunter was directing at him. “It’s a she?”

“Feels like a she.”

He’d known for a while the spirit might be female, and even admitted something similar in one of his many lies to the Dixon - that the handprint bruises across his hips had been small and slender. At the time it had been to convince the other man that he hadn’t left the marks on Rick himself, but the lie had come so easily it had _felt_ like the truth. Maybe, in a way, it was and Rick just didn’t know it at the time.

The bar stool screeched against the stone floor as Daryl stood up, grumbling to himself in a huff with a frown, and Rick caught what he thought sounded like “well _she_ sure’as shit likes ya a littl’ too much.” Making the deputy grin, giving the redneck a smug smile as he rounded the kitchen island as if to start pacing but Rick stopped him in his tracks by stepping back into his path.

“What was that?” he asked cheekily, and Daryl just glared at him - about to open his mouth and no doubt give a good list of reasons why his worries were justified. Rick kissed him again before he got a chance to defend himself, not able to drop the grin even as he did so. He kept it short-lived but it left the impact he wanted. “Think I like ya when yer jealous, Dixon.” It felt a little bit like Just Desserts, but Rick kept that comment to himself. It was probably still there in his pleased expression, though, because Daryl snorted and leaned his hip against the counter beside him - throwing a towel over his shoulder and waiting for clean dishes to dry.

He let the silence stretch for a little while, waited until Rick gave him the dripping but clean frying pan before he spoke again. “‘M gonna stay here t’night.”

Rick’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “... that so?”

“Yeah,” Daryl told him without looking up from his task, and not lacking any of his boldness from his first statement. “Gotta keep an eye out, jus’ in case somethin’ starts actin’ up. Don’ trust it not to.” He was right, with the effect the house had on Rick earlier that morning it was obvious there was still something wrong within its maze of dark hallways and endless unoccupied rooms. But Rick just couldn’t help himself, still feeling too good with the warmth of the hunter all along one side, working in tandem like the used to. It felt too familiar.

“And, where were ya planning on sleeping?” he asked slowly, attempting to keep insinuation out of his voice but it still leaked through - at least to his ears.

“I wasn’t.” Rick’s eyes snapped to Daryl’s, and the hunter looked back to show he was serious. Rick knew he was, and knew what he meant, but _really_ was he going to make it that easy? Daryl’s squinted expression twitched, as if resisting rolling his eyes, before he answered Rick’s question just as level and deliberate. “Couch ‘s fine.”

“Kinda hard ta keep an eye on much in that sittin’ room,” Rick told him as nonchalant as he could.

“Then th’ floor, whatever,” Daryl huffed, rubbing at a plate with his hand-towel a little too roughly. “Ain’t like I’m not used t’it.”

“Ya ain’t sleeping on the floor,” Rick said in exasperation, shutting off the faucet and turning to give him a stare that was full of fond aggravation. Something so complex only Daryl could bring it out of him. “Just wondering when ya made it a habit of invitin’ yourself into other people’s beds. That happen often?”

Daryl’s annoyance deflated a bit, and he cast a side glance to meet Rick’s, just as complex with an array of nameless emotions. “...An’ what if it does?”

A smile curled up at the side of Rick’s mouth, eyes bright in surprise and mirth. _Goddamn._ He was loving every minute of this, really he was, the rediscovery of this enigma of a man that had even more layers added to the depth Rick had always loved to explore. He could live a hundred lifetimes and probably still never know everything about Daryl Dixon.

“Guess I’m the one who should be jealous, then.”

Daryl didn’t answer, but the shift in his expression said he’d really like to see that. Rick was sure he’d get a chance sometime soon, at the rate they were going. If Rick had any say, he wasn’t going to let go of the other man for anything.

They finished up quickly, and Daryl began gathering his books and some supplies to bring up to Rick’s room; candles, rock salt, some partially dried out sage, and his tin box of white chalk used to draw symbols on the walls and doors. Rick was very excited to have the new defenses put up around his bedroom, and was looking forward to what he hoped would be the first good night’s sleep he’d had in a long while.

“I don’ know if it’ll keep her out,” Daryl told him as he piled a few things in Rick’s arms. “She ain’t malevolent or nuthin’, but it should tame shit down.”

“Good,” Rick said with meaning. “I don’t really want to drown again, that wasn’t pleasant.”

Daryl skidded to a stop in the doorway of the walk-in pantry and turned around to lean out the open doorway and stare at him in confusion. “Drown?”

“Yeah, I guess I didn’ tell ya the end,” Rick said, shifting the books to one hip to hold them steadier. “When she was screamin’ at me, looking like you, the room started filling up with water. Flooded the bed, and finally went up over our heads and I almost didn’t make it out.”

“You didn’ say nuthin’ ‘bout water,” Daryl announced with a lilt that caught Rick’s attention very quickly.

“Is that important? Why’re you smiling like that?” It was almost unnerving, cause Daryl didn’t full on smile often. Sure he could smirk with the best of them, attractive as fuck and fit for a magazine spread, but any smiles were pulled from somewhere deep that he never fully submitted to. Keeping them small and stubborn, usually only tugging at one side or the other. But Daryl’s expression now was one of awe and astonishment, even borderline _excitement_. Another emotion Rick wasn’t used to seeing. It was almost as if he couldn’t believe their luck. It morphed into one of his signature smirks that was more grin than sneer, making the excitement a contagious thing that Rick could feel caught up in his chest even before Daryl spoke again.

“I know how ta talk to yer ghost.”


	12. Way Down We Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I 100% had planned to have this up on Friday but life got in the way over the week and then the weekend was crazy with doctor's stuff so thank you all for being patient. I usually try to aim for the first week of the month but sadly this time it wasn't meant to be. I will attempt to do better for the next one.
> 
> So this chapter is a ritual chapter, but it's a very different ritual and I had fun playing with it so I hope you all enjoy reading it. There aren't really any big warnings/triggers for this chapter except some conceptual musings about death, as well some vivid descriptions of what it feels like to drown. Not that I would know how it feels personally, but I gave it my best shot >.> I like writing the spooky bits
> 
> A big thank you to my lovely beta The_Royal_Gourd who was Speedy Gonzalez with this chapter and got it all shaped up for you lovely folks in no time. Any left over mistakes are mine, I hope you enjoy :) and Happy early Halloween <3

\--

\--

By midafternoon Rick’s bedroom door looked like the entrance to a distant land named in a forgotten language, as if walking across the threshold would transport him thousands of miles away and not into the gold and grey tinted room that was in plain view. The door frame in particular was so textured with chalk writings and drawings they resembled pillars to an ancient temple, more complex white lines than cherrywood trimming by the time Daryl was done with them. Rick suspected it was less likely Daryl had finished his design, but that he had just run out of space to write spells and wards on. The door itself had a large picture taking up most of the expanse, resembling a _vévé_ in its intricacy, once again drawn from memory. But for the first time, Rick had to wonder how often Daryl had to have drawn that same symbol - or any of the wards he’d scribbled on the door frame - for the redneck to know them so precisely.

It sent a chill down his spine at the thought; because that either meant Daryl had been delving into things all kinds of unsavory, or there were other places in town that were just as seeped in darkness. So much so the townspeople had begun to reach out to the Dixons. That theory sounded a lot less likely, and a lot harder to prove since it wouldn’t be part of the weekly Sunday gossip train after mass. It would be something that they would keep to themselves and barely think about to avoid speaking aloud. Either way sounded a little too far-fetched, so Rick would just add it to the list of questions he had for the hunter when it was his time to share secrets.

Rick hoped that time was soon. He didn’t know if he could let the other man out of his sights until he knew at least where Daryl was _going_ when he left the plantation grounds. Daryl couldn’t expect Rick to wait patiently while he was out doing God knows what, with only his imagination to feed his worry. Luckily Rick had him all night, it seemed, so under shroud of darkness and locked away from the rest of the world - maybe Daryl would feel comfortable enough to explain everything to him. The not knowing was eating away at him.

While the hunter did his work at the entrance of the room, Rick worked on preparation inside of it; pushing his furniture to the furthest corners and rolling up the ornate rug on the hardwood floor. They needed room to make a salt circle on the floor, another five-star pentagram to cleanse the space and keep the spirit trying to contact Rick as calm as possible. If not for whatever Daryl had planned to “talk” to the spirit before nightfall, but also for the rest of the time Rick would stay in White Oak. The room probably hadn’t been maintained in a long time, possibly since they were eighteen and Daryl had last smudged the air with smoke of burning sage leaves.

The floor still had pale spots in the wood stain that made a perfect circle in the center of the room, from where candles had melted years ago and been left for days on end because it had made Rick feel safer as a teenager. Even now it was comforting to look at, a scar to the room that held pleasant reminders instead of tragic ones, and to see it unearthed from beneath the rug so naturally Rick couldn’t help the lightness that swelled in his lungs when he found them. As if the spots had grown out of the floorboards like mushrooms. Even Daryl’s expression stalled for a moment when he saw them too, a soft fondness touching the edges of his eyes and mouth before he went back to his work.

He began on the salt circle as soon as his task of warding the doorway was done, the practiced and flippant movements creating the most impeccable and precise work - but it was still unnerving for Rick to witness Daryl creating it in such irreverent mannerisms. Rick knew the redneck could make a perfect pentagram with his eyes closed and one hand tied behind his back, but the quick movements could almost be seen as rushed - as if he didn’t care if it wasn’t perfect. He trusted Daryl, knew the other was too familiar with the dark art of his religion to be so careless. He knew better. Rick knew he knew better. So why couldn’t he shake the unnerving worry caught up and snagged heavily in his chest?

The thunderstorm they had seen rolling in finally settled heavy and fat over Southeastern Georgia, winds dying down so the clouds hovered over their small town and turned day to night through the sprawling swamps. It was no longer dumping buckets at a time on the windows, but it was still steady and the beads of water traveling down the glass caught golden candlelight when Rick began to light the two dozen or so votives they had carted up with them. He set a few near the window, letting the glare from the flames brighten the whole planes of glass to help lighten the room. By the time he had finished, Daryl was already done with the salt circle, and had smudged the room to his liking - leaving the still smoldering bundle of dried sage leaves in a bowl to continue to burn and float smoke along the floor like a smoke machine.

He was sat on the floor before the pentagram, letting the thick cloud of crawling fog lick at his bare feet and folded legs as he began flipping through the tomes of books stacked haphazardly next to him. Daryl had chosen a few select volumes and skimmed through different sections faster than Rick could keep up, before tossing them aside and digging back into the pile. Looking for something that he knew to exist, though Rick wasn’t party to what it was quite yet. He sat down on the other side of the redneck, giving him free-range to tear through his mountain of texts and spells older than both of them combined, and just watched him work. Feeling a little at a loss to help, and wishing he had thought to grab his own stack of Sheriff county files that were on the desk across the room before he sat down.

The files were now organized, and had lots of writing all over them in Rick’s tidy scrawl that Shane could never seem to read. He had figured out which cases were pertinent to what he felt could be a cover-up of some kind, or that had a lot of red-flags and changed information on them, and he couldn’t help but feel he was _on_ to something big here. Something buried so deep beneath that town that even most of the residents today didn’t know about it, although a few still had to know if even the new computer systems were getting altered to keep their version of the county’s history the way they wrote it. Rick still hadn’t told Daryl of his suspicions of how his old house had burned down, which would no doubt drag up a lot of dark conjectures in the other man purely based around Rick’s guesswork and not much else. He had to actually do some investigation to get the answers he wanted, but he really wanted Daryl’s opinion on a few things as well before he dove straight into the world of conspiracy and possible corruption.

He didn’t even want to think the words _arson_ , or _murder_ , even _accidental death_ would be too much for him, but they whispered on the wind every time he thought back to that burned down heap of wooden planks in the middle of the swamp. Of the crushed mailbox with ‘Dixon’ on the side, tossed into a ravine like the ground would swallow it up in time and then no one would know. Rick couldn’t help but wonder what kind of people possessed the ignorance to think that they knew the forest better than the fucking Dixon family did, that they understood nature enough to manipulate it to their liking. He shuddered at the thought, and bit his tongue to keep from bringing it up in that moment. One step at a time. Daryl seemed on the precipice of fixing whatever was wrong with the house. Once they ticked that box off their to-do list, then they could move on to Rick’s findings and speculation. Figure out what was fact and what was fiction. Although if Rick was somehow _wrong_ about all this, he might as well quit his job on the force and start writing crime novels. There was no way he was seeing things, you couldn’t make this shit up.

“Fuck,” Daryl muttered to the book in his lap, rough and aggravated with a hint of defeat. He was staring at a page that was written in an old dialect of French Rick couldn’t make head or tails of, and it was mostly text scrawled by hand on the time-stained paper. There was a small ink drawing that the words shifted around in the middle of the page, and it showed a man dragging another below the surface of what could only be water. From the way it was drawn it was hard for Rick to decide who was winning the fight, but it was obvious the adversary was trying to drown the man his arms were locked around.

“That doesn’t look promising,” Rick couldn’t help but mutter as well, not liking the look of whatever was going on. He really, _really_ didn’t want to experience drowning again - in his dreams or the real world.

“It’s no’ that,” Daryl told him, waving over the image as if he could shoo it off the page and out of Rick’s line of sight. “Peopl’ who wrote this shit wer’ dramatic fucks.” Instead he pointed to a passage that was very lengthy and had a lot of punctuation. Instructions, or warnings. Either way Rick couldn’t recognize much beyond a couple of words that seemed like gibberish in his head; such as _sleep,_ what might have been _river_ or _lake_ , and a word that loosely translated to taking a walk or exploring. “This’s the probl’m.”

“I started takin’ French, but I ain’t working on my Masters yet Daryl,” Rick told him plainly.

“It says I can’t do th’s, only you can - since yer th’ one that’s been havin’ these dreams.” To him, with his tone, Rick got the feeling that this information was a dealbreaker for Daryl - and Rick was very much inclined to agree with the drawing that accompanied the page. As much as he didn’t want to ask, he knew this was important enough that Daryl had been ready to do it so he should at least… know what was going on.

“What is it? I still don’t know what this has ta do with me drowning in my dream.”

Daryl closed the book before he answered, his own way of ending the matter on if they were going to even attempt it, but he at least did give Rick an explanation. “So - ya gotta realize somethin’ about all th’ elements. They got their own prop’rties an’ shit and got diff’rent kinds’a reach. Water ‘s somethin’ that is literally ev’rywhere; the air, the ground, way up ‘n the sky, an’ in ev’ry living thin’ that breathes. It travels forev’r, so it didn’ take long fer peopl’ a long time ago ta figure out all water is connect’d.”

Rick nodded in understanding, his biology 101 class had taught him that much so it wasn’t necessarily something Daryl could only find in an old book written in French. His teacher at the community college had a thorn in his craw about pollution and how that shit comes back to rain down on all of the folks far inland (like in Kentucky) who don’t think it affects them. Explained in excruciating detail how that water cycle worked with the atmosphere and connected to all bodies of water, fresh or salt. But Rick wasn’t sure how that had anything to do with his dream.

“All water ‘s connected,” Daryl repeated, for clarification and as if he was waiting for Rick to make an association all on his own. “That includes yer dreams.” Rick just blinked at him, and bit back the words _I don’t buy it_ \- which had become a regular phrase among the station house when someone was trying to piece together a case that might as well have been built out of popsicle sticks and glue. But Daryl could see it anyway, as he exhaled heavily in annoyance and turned to give Rick more of his attention. “The water yer dreamin’ about actually _exists_ som’where, it’s how th’ ghost’s been channelin’ all this shit to ya. Most ain’ this powerful unless their bones ‘re burri’d in th’ walls. Jus’ cause they died here don’ mean they can walk inta yer head while ya sleep. It’s usin’ _water_ ta reach ya, so all we need ta do is use water ta reach back.”

“But we don’t know where the water is from, so how could that work?” Rick asked. He had pushed past his own prejudice that had resettled into his impulsive first-reactions, and instead tried to follow Daryl’s line of reasoning. In it’s own mythic and faith-based way, it did make sense. He just had to use parts of his brain and pieces of his soul he had ignored for a long time. That called out to a childhood between the dark trees in the swamp, that believed in dark shapes in the tree branches and monsters that chased you home in the dead of night. But also that pieces of brown quartz could ease the pain in your aching feet, or that burning plants and incense could calm whatever demons you had in your head or hiding under your floorboards. It was a belief that was unshakable once it took root again; and though it strained against the rust gathered on those gears in his head that wanted facts and scientific proof, once they started churning again things began to click together in succession. “Is that why we can’t do it? You said only I can, but I bet I don’t know creek water from a puddle when I’m too busy choking on it.”

“Nah, tha’s not it,” Daryl said again, shaking his head. “Since all water conn’cts we can jus’ use water from th’ sink or th’ tub. Wha’ we can’ do is send ya ‘n there alone.”

_In?_

“What do ya mean? Go in _where_?”

Daryl’s fingers drummed on the book in indication, but again refused to reopen it. “The water,” he answered simply, and left it at that. Instantly Rick conjured up the picture of the man dragging another beneath the surface of a pond, for all intents and purposes seeming to help _hold him down_ against his better instincts. As if the goal was for him to drown as part of- _Oh hell no._

“That… is such a bad idea,” Rick managed to blurt out in slight horror. His mind creating a few terrifying scenarios that could be translated from that image, each even worse than the last until his back was stiff with tension and sweat clung to his skin. “Why were you _excited_ about this? You wanted to… voluntarily drown?” Rick couldn’t even fathom ever purposefully putting himself back in that situation where his lungs screamed for air and his brain burned for oxygen in maddening succession like a forest catching fire.

“Cause it means she ain’t tha’ strong,” Daryl explained to him, holding the book and fidgeting with the binding, as if the ritual inside was calling to him and reminding him of all the reasons it would be helpful instead of utterly disastrous. “Or evil, nuthin like that. Fer som’ reason she’s worried ‘bout you, an’ ya ain’t as hopeless as ya used ta be.” Rick glared and bumped his shoulder into Daryl’s broad ones, jostling the other and also releasing some of tightness in his spine. “It’s gotta be f’r a good reason, if she’s this persist’nt. But she ain’t dangerous.” Rick agreed, nodding curtly, but he couldn’t shake the uneasiness that Daryl had been so _ready_ to literally jump in the deep end and hold his breath until a ghost appeared.

“I can’t believe-” he began, but had to shake his head, because _yes_ he could believe it. He just didn’t want to. “- you were really gonna do it?”

“Yeah, I was,” Daryl answered without hesitation or any hint of apprehension. “It’d be on our terms th’s time. I’d know wha’ ta do.” The words sounded ridiculous, like the Dixon was some kind of ghost wrangler that could put the spirits in their place with just a squint of his pale blue eyes, but he spoke them so plainly and matter-of-factly that Rick believed him. Having control of the situation when he next spoke to the spirit inhabiting his room would make getting answers a touch easier than what he had gone through the night before, so maybe Daryl could succeed where both Rick and his ghost had failed.

He’d have Daryl there with him, beside him and leading him through each step carefully. He must’ve known how to complete this ritual without… _actually_ drowning, so if it was important enough and the redneck was that confident in his abilities then who was Rick to say no? He still didn’t know the particulars of the ritual, but the gist he got and in order to speak with the spirit who had been so desperately trying to reach him the past few weeks they had to enter her domain. Even flirt with death itself. But if there was anyone Rick trusted with that element of the unknown, it was Daryl Dixon.

After a long silence where both were wrapped in their own thoughts, Daryl pondering who knows what and Rick thinking long and hard about the importance of what knowledge they could find, he finally shattered the quiet in the dark room. “Okay.”

Daryl’s stare could have burned holes through a tree trunk. “No.”

“But you just said-”

“I said _I’d_ kno’ what ta do - an’ I also said ya ain’t goin’ in there alone!” he raged, harsh words rising in volume as if they made more impact that way.

“You’ll be right there!” Rick argued.

“Ain’t the same thing an’ ya damn well know it!” Daryl spat, but calmed himself when he saw Rick wasn’t rising to his challenge and at least tried to reel himself back in. It was progress. “We can’t both go under, we migh’ no’ make it back.” It was the first flicker of uncertainty that Daryl had shown since he’d shut down the idea, he had skipped ten steps ahead of Rick and already thought of all the possibilities that even had a chance of working. Nothing met his standards, but at this point Rick was ready to lower the bar a bit in order to get this whole mess behind them. His grandmother hadn’t been living in her own house for nearly two weeks, not a few days after putting her husband in the ground, and she didn’t deserve this. If Daryl was going to throw out reckless ideas then they might as well pick them up and run with them, because nothing else seemed to be working.

“I already said it ain’t a good idea,” Rick snapped in clarification, he knew what they were getting into. “But yer right, this is important. She’s got somethang to tell us. We need to at least hear her out.” For all they knew she had a damn roadmap to banishing this evil thing from the first floor and reclaiming the Grimes plantation house for the living once more. What was a little discomfort for the chance to end the endurance trial they had been on?

Silence stretched between them, Daryl’s tight-lipped scowl showing his defeat before it reached his defiant eyes. It was time to put a lot of things behind them, and they had already done so much that morning, so keeping up the trend was an enticing path to follow. No matter how much they both didn’t like it. They were no longer looking at each other, watching the dying embers of the burning sage in the bowl on the ground smother itself and the smoke settling on the ground begin to fade, much like the temporary anger that they were both so tired of. It had burned out just as fast.

“We both ain’t gonna fit in that tub either,” Daryl muttered, just to be stubborn.

“There’s about two dozen bathtubs in this house,” Rick reminded him with a half smile that didn’t hold much humor at all. “We’ll make it work.”

\--

They found a washroom on the far side of the house, nestled into the Eastern corner of the second floor. It used to be the designated guest room for his grandpappy’s oldest sister, rest her soul, and she had been a bigger boned woman who enjoyed a long soak in the tub before the sun had fully risen each morning. Her traditional claw footed porcelain bathtub was by no means spacious for more than one person, but it definitely gave one man enough elbow room on his own - so as long as two didn’t mind the close quarters it would fit two people just fine. Even two fully grown men. Laying down in it to test the space, Rick felt it resembled the space of a coffin a little too much for his tastes, but it was the only one with sides high enough to submerge them both so he didn’t get much say in the matter.

Daryl filled the tub with cool water, the old faucets sputtering but groaning less without the water heater’s usual contribution, then spent a good amount of time in the pantry downstairs in the kitchen while Rick followed his instructions to set the scene for them. Candles clustered on the sink and the back of the toilet to cast pale golden light amid the blue and grey shadows that flowed along the walls. It was still raining, and the clouded midday light kept everything shrouded in a dimness that made it feel more like late evening rather than 3 o’clock in the afternoon. So much had happened Rick _felt_ like the whole day had already passed them by, and was already beginning to feel the exhaustion in his bones - more mental than physical - but he was still sure he could sleep for a week once they were all done with this ritual.

If they made it through alive, that was.

“Thank God yer Gan’ma’s got’a taste fer Cajun ‘r we’d be shit outta luck,” Daryl told him when he returned with his arms full of bowls and boxes and a plastic freezer bag with some kind of meat in it. He tossed it into the sink and turned on the warm water to begin thawing it, and the freezerburn alone made it hard to tell what it was but Rick was sure he could see a chicken foot amid the other lumps of flesh and-

“B’ glad sh’ keeps th’ innards of ‘er chickens, too.”

Rick didn’t want to think what sort of things would be said if he and Daryl Dixon had walked into the butcher shop on the corner of Main Street and asked if they had any chicken entrails left over. But he swallowed hard and decided he didn’t want to know quite yet what Daryl was going to do with them. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like it. He busied himself with lighting incense sticks and placing them around the room, the spider-web like trails of smoke intermingling with the mist rising from the sink and catching on the candlelight to create that exotic atmosphere from weeks before. Transforming the room into a gateway to something that felt other-worldly and far, far away from the Grimes Plantation house.

Plopped right onto the floor, Daryl had scattered the half dozen different spice bottles, glass jars, and other materials around him in a half circle. He then began digging into the corner store brand boxes of baking materials, pouring unmeasured amounts into a giant mixing bowl and churning the contents with a wooden spoon. He’d opened that formidable book on the ground next to him and consulted it quietly, not even looking up at Rick as he worked, even when Rick sat down across from him and turned the bottles and boxes his way to see at what they were. Daryl had emptied about half a box of brown sugar into the bowl first, which already had some mashed up chile peppers, and a dark thick syrup that was very obviously molasses from the strong smell wafting up from the bowl. He added generous dashes of more chili powder, minced ginger and garlic, coarse salts, nutmeg, and cinnamon, and then beat the combination into a grainy paste that was a very dark brown. It actually didn’t smell bad, and probably would have made a fine marinade to grill or bake meat... and the realization hit him like a semi truck.

_Fuck_. He let out a deep sigh through his nose, ignoring how his stomach churned even before Daryl reached up to the sink and felt for the plastic bag of chicken organs. He brought it down to where they sat and checked if they were still frozen through, finding them squishy and lightly warm, if the juices filling the bag and leaking from the corners were any indication. Inside he sifted through the contents until he found what he was looking for, and he tossed it right onto the tiled bathroom floor before he put the bag back in the sink.

It was a chicken heart.

Rick couldn’t have contained the groan in the back of his throat if his life depended on it, and Daryl smirked a little at his discomfort as he flicked open a switchblade and sliced the heart into two halves clean as butter. He tossed them into the bowl and mixed everything some more, coating the pieces thoroughly, then leaving them to marinate while he consulted the old French book once more.

“This is really going to suck, isn’t it?” Rick grumbled, not able to take his eyes away from the two lumps soaking in the grainy concoction next to them. Daryl didn’t even have to tell him they were going to have to eat them, he could already feel his gag reflex flaring up in preparation.

“Yep.” Daryl traced a few lines with his fingers, mouthing some words to himself before flicking his pale blue eyes up to Rick’s expectant ones. “Alright, most’a this I do m’self, but th’s time you got lines, too.” He turned the book around and handed it to Rick, who hadn’t expected the tome to be as heavy as it was when dropped into his waiting hands. “Can ya read this?” Daryl pointed to a line amid a lot of other text, and it was half gibberish but Rick tried his best.

“ _Riv-ya, pran me’nan rev-mew-en_ ,” he sounded out slowly, and Daryl’s amused huff of non-laughter made a smile curl up involuntarily. “I’m guessin’ that was wrong.”

“‘M no’ even gonna tell ya wha’ ya said,” Daryl told him teasingly, as if he had accidentally said something dirty but Rick was sure he was just spouting nonsense instead. “List’n - _Rivyè, pran m 'nan rèv mwen._ ” Daryl’s thick backwoods accent fell away to the foreign language, vowels curling around his tongue in turns of delicate combinations of sound and consonants, and Rick felt the sickness that had been churning his stomach ebb to a warm swell of wonder. He could listen to Daryl speak in other languages all damn day, it didn’t matter that he couldn’t understand a word of it, every syllable sounded so alluring that Rick wanted to taste them on his own tongue.

_Focus Grimes_ . Clearing his throat, Rick tried again, with Daryl repeating the words slower and with more emphasis until the deputy got it right. “ _Rivyè, pran m 'nan rèv mwen._ ”

“Good,” Daryl told him, tone warm and lingering with that same rousing suggestion that had been distracting Rick moments before. “Think y’can rememb’r that?” Rick nodded, knowing his stare was blazing in its intensity and not sure he could dial it back. Daryl didn’t seem to mind, as he leaned in and pressed a searing kiss that turned heated between one breath and the next - but the hunter pulled back before they could get lost in it. Rick trusted the man in front of him with his life, when it came to rituals like this, but that had felt like a little more than a kiss for good luck.

It felt more like a _just in case we die_ kind of kiss, and that sobered Rick up really fast.

They stripped down to their boxers, again, and the heavy sense of foreboding kept them from falling into that same trap of not being able to keep hands off each other. There was no need for painting symbols on their skin, or drawing lines on the ground, and the bath water was free of salts or other herbs - just cool as a mountain stream and clear as well water. It was going to be cold as hell, and Rick stared at the gold tinted water in dread, not noticing Daryl holding out the bowl towards him until he was directly in his line of sight. They both took a half of the chicken heart, coated in the sticky, coarse grained paste, and locked eyes for a moment in hesitation.

“Bottoms up,” Daryl mumbled, the two tilting their heads back in tandem to swallow the hearts whole like taking shots of rot-gut whiskey. The overpowering aroma was like a punch to the face reeking of molasses and peppers, and the rough grain was so hard to swallow they would’ve had a better chance eating handfuls of sand. The raw meat still somehow leaked through the cornucopia of bitter, sweet, and spicy flavors - it was the most foul thing Rick had ever eaten, and by the shudder and shake of his head Daryl felt the same.

“Shit’s nasty,” Daryl spat, and Rick couldn’t help but agree but he didn’t dare to open his mouth to voice it. His half of the chicken heart still hovered heavily in his throat as if threatening to come back up at a moment’s notice, so he followed Daryl’s example of tilting his head into the sink and drinking straight from the faucet to help wash it down. As well as attempt to get the taste out of his mouth. It didn’t do much good.

Daryl stepped into the tub first, which must have been as cold as climbing into a deep freeze, but he didn’t show it as he sunk down into the water and scooted back to allow Rick room to follow him. His shoulders were miles broader than Rick’s own, so during their test runs in the empty tub they determined he would be at Rick’s back in order for them both to fit. Rick could see the goosebumps traveling across the other’s tan skin, which did not help his hesitation in stepping into the tub that would be the scene of their ritual, but he did so carefully. It was hard to remember that it was literally just a tub of tap water, and nothing else, not when what they were about to do hung on the horizon onimously.

Bracing himself on the wall behind the tub, Rick turned around and sat in the water with his back to Daryl’s chest, maneuvering his long, thin legs as the redneck scooted forward a bit and they were flush against each other. Daryl’s arms were holding on to the rim of the tub until Rick got situated, finally leaning back into the other’s warmth - because _fuck_ that water was cold - and then Daryl slid his arms around Rick’s waist to press him to his chest.

The quiet did nothing to help his nerves, and Daryl’s heartbeat against his spine was thundering just as fast as his; it made the danger and dread seem all the more real.

“Y’ready?” Daryl asked him quietly, words right next to his ear, breath sweeping across the back of his neck. It was the only comfort Rick could find in the face of the precipice they were balanced on. It felt too much like standing on the edge of cliff, ready to jump off with no parachute. They were looking into the face of death more willingly than ever before, and Rick couldn’t help thinking how fucking _stupid_ this was - they could both die in this damn tub and it would be no one’s fault but their own. But he nodded, after a long stretch of hesitation that spoke volumes in words he had no hope of grasping.

Daryl began to speak words in the same Haitian French that Rick didn’t understand, the flow of the words near pressed into his skin, and it built the anticipation to a maddening level that had his heart about to beat out of his chest. His lungs screamed for air already, aching and easy to place beneath his ribs as Rick tried to remember to keep breathing while he could. “ _Desann nan fènwa a, nan domèn nan lespri ak lalwa._ _Rivyè, pran m 'nan rèv mwen._ ” That was his que, and Rick opened his mouth to try and form the words Daryl had made him repeat over and over until their candace became more familiar than the syllables he spoke.

“ _Rivyè, pran m 'nan rèv mwen._ ” Rick said in the quiet, his voice just above a whisper and unwavering - making him sound more strong than he felt. He tried to remember the dream as best he could, the feeling of water going over his head as it flooded his bed, and the sound of a younger Daryl’s voice telling him _‘m not gonna let ya drown, Rick_. He had to believe that. That there were two different people who were going to hold on to him and not let him slip into the darkness long before his time. Daryl had already pulled him from it once, and Rick knew in his heart that the man could do it again.

His strong arms were locked tight around Rick, also pinning the older man’s arms to his sides in an embrace meant to constrict any escape but it just made Rick feel more contained and secure. He had bent his arms enough to grab on to Daryl’s forearms crossed across his chest, holding so firmly the other had to know his strong words were just a cover for his nerves. His grip had to be tight enough to leave bruises.

“I’ve got you,” Daryl told him, once again speaking lowly into his ear, squeezing Rick tighter in emphasis and it helped Rick let out a shuddering breath. It was what the other was waiting for, because Daryl then leaned back into the empty space of tub behind him and didn’t let go of Rick - pulling them both beneath the surface of the water to wait.

\--

At first, nothing happened.

Daryl’s arms stayed locked around Rick, helping anchor them down to the bottom of the tub. Logically, Rick knew they should at least float a little in the water, the porcelain walls were deep but they weren’t _that_ deep. It could have had something to do with the chicken hearts, or the words they’d spoken before going under - probably the combination of the two - but they were heavy as stones at the bottom of the bathtub. Going under had the water spilling over the edges, displacing it and leaving the surface a good three or four inches from the end of Rick’s nose. They laid there in the muffled silence, Daryl’s arms as solid as iron, his mouth pressed into the junction of Rick’s neck and left shoulder, heartbeats thundering in their ears and watching air bubbles rise from being trapped to their skin. Each second felt like an eternity, waiting for something to happen, but the stillness and silence stretched from 30 seconds to a full minute, and Rick’s heart slowed from its panicked state to one of confusion.

90 seconds passed, and nothing changed.

Two minutes is the average time a person can hold their breath. Rick remembered that tidbit from one of the regulated CPR and First Aid classes that he had sat through time and time again in Kentucky. One summer he and Shane had timed themselves for shits and giggles, they both hadn’t made it further than three and a half minutes. As the two minute marker passed, Rick could feel the burning in his lungs begin, but still nothing was happening in the tub. Except that they weren’t floating, and the last remaining trails of trapped air bubbles were drifting to the surface in dwindling numbers.

The panic hadn’t returned yet with the lack of oxygen, and Rick began to worry that they had done something wrong. He had no way of asking Daryl how long it was going to take, so he just began to drum his fingers impatiently against his arms across his chest. Rick could feel the other press a smile to the skin on his neck where he’d been resting his mouth - and possibly blocking it to keep himself from breathing in water. But he didn’t answer him beyond that. How long were they supposed to wait?

They neared three minutes and Rick’s chest felt like it was on fire, the cold water no longer a factor as his mind burned with the natural instinct to lurch forward until he broke the surface - to sweet freedom and fresh air - and he would admit it was a losing battle. He couldn’t help but think something was _wrong_ , so with a slump of defeat he tried to pull away, giving up and hoping Daryl would just follow him and they could strategize what to do next. Begin again? Was that even an option?

But Daryl wouldn’t let him budge.

The surface was near inches from his nose, but Daryl’s hold on him was so strong Rick couldn’t even reach it. From his position beneath Rick, his face still pressed into the space where his neck met his shoulder, Daryl shook his head in response to Rick’s attempt. They had to keep waiting. As much as the other must have been hurting for air as well, because he was pressed so tight to Rick’s skin he could feel the hunter’s teeth.

Dread seeped heavy and real back into the spaces now void of oxygen in Rick’s chest, doubt and fear clouding it’s way in as well. This felt too much like a suicide pact. He couldn’t help but wonder what would happen - what would his mother think, or what would _Shane_ think - if they both were found dead in a bathtub wrapped in each other’s arms. How messed up would that be, and who beyond his family and the Dixon’s would know it was a ritual gone bad and not a tragic end to a love story most weren’t privy to? Shane would know at least, and Rick knew without a doubt the man would not have one nice thing to say at his funeral if this was how he went out.

Soon Rick lost track of how long it had been. Every molecule in his body was _screaming_ at him for air! To rip himself from Daryl’s arms and break the surface, to save himself. But he knew he couldn’t. He tried to remind himself of that as his oxygen deprived brain began to filter through bits and pieces of his life like a slide show gone out of control. He remembered what it felt like to be held underwater as a kid, usually at the Greene Farm and most of the time by Shane Walsh, and how this felt nothing like that. How he had once heard that drowning is the most painful way to die. He couldn’t remember where, though he remembered wondering how someone could know that without being dead themselves, but he believed it now without a shadow of a doubt. The seconds kept passing in a maddening blur, and Rick did his best to keep his lips sealed shut and not breathe in any water - because no matter what happened he did want to leave that tub alive and water in his lungs was not going to help any. He tried to not breathe through his nose either, but some must have slipped through somehow because the false inhale had him choking. His chest shuddered with a cough that he couldn’t hold back, jerking in Daryl’s tight embrace, and everything tumbled into insanity after that.

In his blind panic, eyes shut tight against the sight of the surface of the water so _close_ but unattainable, Rick hadn’t noticed the water was moving. At first he thought it was his own thrashing, his body protesting the water penetrating his lungs and throat, but when his eyes snapped open - ready to elbow Daryl in the fucking chest to escape him - he saw it. The water surrounding them was filled with bubbles, rising from nowhere and brushing against their skin as if they were at the bottom of a boiling pot but there was no heat. Or maybe there was, and they just couldn’t feel it beyond the cold they had been immersed in?

The pain was unbearable. Rick continued to drown, and his body continued to convulse and go into shock, and in his mind he screamed. For help, for Daryl, for this damn ritual to hurry up, for anything to make it all stop - and he had no way of knowing his own mouth had opened and echoed the scream beneath the cold water covering them until a hand slapped over his mouth. Keeping him from inhaling more than he already had. Daryl had to let loose one hand on his tight hold to do so, and Rick’s instinct-driven thoughts knew this was his chance. But then the world tilted, their equilibrium spiraling, and suddenly it felt as if they were falling backwards - sinking further down into an abyss that Rick recognized all too well. It was where his dream had tried to take him.

The bubbles around them slugged to a stand still, and the darkness sweeped in from the edges. Rick couldn’t help thinking _this is it_ , this is where they died. The ritual had killed them before they could complete what needed to be done. But Daryl’s face was still pressed tight to his neck, and the darkness soon adjusted to his wide eyes. It was tinged blue. The bubbles had all but faded around them, most having risen to the top and far beyond his sight, showing they were very, _very_ far down somewhere. But something moved out of the corner of his eye. Rick’s brain tried to process it past the pain that was numbing with the cold that enveloped them, and even as it passed them by he couldn’t believe what he saw.

It was a fish.

It appeared from the deep dark surrounding them and almost as quickly disappeared, swimming hurriedly away from their presence only to disappear inside the safety of a massive sunken log. The bottom of wherever they were was littered with rotting branches and wooden beams that could only be remnants of old boats. But nothing larger than a two person fishing boat, much like he saw in lakes and rivers in the area. Rocks, moss, dust and various debris covered everything liberally; the soft grey dust only kicked up by the movements of fish and crawdads that moved sluggishly through the deep water. It looked like ash.

Then he saw it, among the uneven ground that surrounded them. It took him a moment and a few glances to realize what it was, hidden among the twigs and branches that were so similar, except the thin appendages were a stark white. It was a hand, dusted in the ash-like debris, free of skin or tissue and entangled in the surrounding deposit of the forest that must’ve hung over the water’s surface. Aged by pressure and preserved by cold, it resembled something that could be found in a Halloween store or a high school science lab. So much so that for a few moments Rick didn’t think that it was real. It was small, as if it belonged to an older child or a woman - and in an instant Rick knew who it belonged to.

The same instant blonde hair floated into his vision, weightless under the water and moving on an invisible current Rick couldn’t feel. A young woman was beside him, where before there had only been the empty dark, and Rick felt he knew her though he had never seen her before in his life. She had to be only a few years older than him, with a round face and large brown eyes, a kind smile quirked the side of her lips that seemed both shy and fond.

“I should’ve known you’d find me here.” Her voice was clear, unaffected by the water, and a distinctly Northern accent that didn’t belong anywhere near the Grimes Plantation.

Rick’s wide stare darted between her and the hand below them, noticing that the skeleton continued along the floor, splayed and missing any remnants of cloth or skin - only shredded ropes around its ankles and waist that were still tired securely to large stones even after the decades it must have been down there. Rick almost didn’t notice the connection amidst the other tree branches and stones that covered the area. The ropes were limp around her bones, the stones having served their purpose of keeping her body from floating to the surface before her flesh had melted away.

“You both are too smart, when you’re together.” There was a small hint of longing in her words as she continued, but the fondness stayed firm in her eyes.

He knew he shouldn’t try to speak, not into the water they were immersed in as the woman in front of him did, but Rick still opened his mouth as if to attempt to talk. Some bubbles escaped, rising above them and disappearing in the dark towards the distant surface. Somewhere in the back of his mind Rick became aware there was a taste in his mouth now, of molded leaves and clear freshwater, like at the Greene Farm’s pond or at a lake. A pond wasn’t as deep as they were, hidden so dark they could barely make out the lightness of the sun overhead, so he made the assumption they were in a lake. The very bottom of a lake, where someone had tossed this woman’s body to sink to its depths and never rise again.

_Who are you?_

He thought the question to himself, still not quite sure how to ask - his hands were still gripping onto Daryl’s arms tight, and that was when he was reminded that Daryl was still holding on to him with his face buried into the back of his neck. Could he see her too? Was he even aware of the lake bottom that surrounded them?

The woman smiled as if she heard him, and answered, “My friend’s called me Jessie, you can too if you’d like.”

The use of the past tense made the situation come rushing back, and Rick knew without a doubt this was the ghost in his room. The one who had been trying to reach out to him, that had been invading his dreams and using a visage of Daryl to hold his attention. All of that seemed like an eternity ago. Rick’s head filled with questions, wanting to know _why_ she had done what she did, why use Daryl, why come to him in his dreams? But the one that rose to the surface first were the ones he needed answered, more desperately than anything.

_Tell me_ , Rick pleaded. _What’s in my house?_

“There’s many things in your house,” Jessie answered, a strange lilt around her words when she referred to the plantation as Rick’s - an amusement as if speaking to a child. “But you knew that.” Her smile stayed there to soften her words, making them sound more playfully chastising instead of condescending. “It’s still got some light in the halls, anyone who lived there - we’re drawn to it. It feels like peace.” Her face reflected that, and then in a stuttered shimmer like an old film glitching sadness overtook her features. “At least, ‘til that thing came, too. Moved in with the rest of us.” She didn’t voice it, but Rick got the distinct impression that whatever it was had carved itself a home inside the house and had shoved quite a few spirits out of the way to do so.

_What is it?_

“I don’t know,” Jessie told him honestly and hopelessly. “But it’s angry, and unforgiving.” Her tone held every ounce of dread Rick and Daryl should have felt when they stepped into the room on the first floor it occupied. Even a ghost knew better than they did, when it came to fearing something as dark and sinister as the haunting of the master bedroom wing. With a blink and a look that said she felt the need to explain, Jessie continued on, “The whole town is drawing things in, like bugs to a lamp - and we know why, but we also don’t. It’s… comfortable, left open for all to see, bright as the sunshine. And after all that time in the dark we can’t help but go towards it.”

_A beacon_. Rick knew he had heard something like that before, someone had once told him that his house was like an open wound that attracted all sorts of bad things to it. He couldn’t remember if it had been Na’ine, or his grandmother, or even Daryl, but it made sense. White Oak was always soaked in the other-wordly, the paranormal that stayed hidden in its corners and shadows, but it was always unmistakably _there_. He had always thought it was the swamp that hid all it’s supernatural secrets, but if the town itself was also apart of that spiritual calling? It was no wonder things had escalated to the place they were now. It was a beacon.

“A haven,” Jessie corrected, “full of empty houses and woods that are _alive_. Some of us look for peace, and find it in the quiet corners, keep to ourselves as we wait. But others look for vengeance, and they find it in the scarred places. Where all bad things are drawn to.”

_An open wound_.

“Yes,” Jessie nodded with her agreement, and Rick couldn’t help but feel a little angry at himself. This all seemed like things he should’ve known, that Daryl should’ve known; in a way they had and just dismissed it as part of the scenery. Everyone else and their mother seemed to know that White Oak was haunted in all four corners and everywhere in between, even if only in a joking sense, so why hadn’t Rick and Daryl thought to factor that in as a variable instead of something that just was? They could have skipped a few steps, treated the thing invading the plantation house as an anomaly instead of throwing every calming ritual and exorcism they could come up with at it. This was something different, something worse - caused by a condition that the town had slowly come to see as the norm.

With a tilt of her head towards the surface above them, Jessie stared beyond as if she could see past the water to the sun high in the sky. “The people up there know about it, it’s why they stay out of White Oak. Too many secrets, too many skeletons. No one’s what they seem.”

_Up there?_ Rick was confused, knew it showed on his face as he tried to look to wherever Jessie was staring. _We’re not in White Oak?_

Jessie raised her arm slowly through the water to point behind Rick and Daryl, her delicate hands a flickering vision of pale skin and rotting flesh, tinted blue by the deep water. “That side is, the other side isn’t. Didn’t have a name when I lived here, a long time ago. But I can hear them in the night. They speak to the dead, like he does.” Her luminescent brown eyes looked over Rick’s shoulder, showing she meant Daryl, but her penetrating stare was unnerving. Rick wasn’t sure if she had blinked during their entire conversation. “They’ll know more than I do.”

_You seem to know a lot_ , Rick told her warmly, trying to mask the way her mere presence was chilling and intimidating him.

“I know enough,” she answered modestly. “I know it’s not safe in your home, my home…” her gaze grew distant at the mention of the house, and Rick wondered how long ago she had lived there. He didn’t know of any distant relatives or ancestors named Jessica, and the woman didn’t look anything like him or the rest of the Grimes family. A small stroke of defiance creased the skin between her eyes, anger flaring up in the empty depths of her gaze. “But it’s _mine_. I can’t leave it.” Her stare flitted back to Rick’s as she willed him to understand. “It’s like we’re trapped while that thing stains our house.” As she spoke, her true skeleton began to show in flickering images once more, making her visage transparent enough for Rick to see the actual skeleton anchored to the lake bottom. But there was no longer just trees and stones surrounding her grave.

As if melting up from the ground, rising from the ash-like debris into the faint light as far as Rick was able to see, more skeletons came into view surrounding them. Buried beneath everything, just like Jessie’s, and reaching out to make themselves known. He never saw it himself, but as his gaze swept the surrounding area, he couldn’t help but think they were moving. Coming closer.

_How many of you are down here?_ Even in his head Rick’s words reeked of fear, the stop-still motion of the dead crawling closer striking terror back into his chest.

“They aren’t all in the water with me,” Jessie told him calmly, as if the skeletons all around them were as ordinary as blades of grass in a field. “But they’re buried like me. Secrets that no one wants to talk about. Forgotten, forever.” Her sad tone had returned, a stark contrast to the fear that was creeping up the back of Rick’s throat painfully. A sudden movement below him had his frightened stare darting down to see a skeleton sprawled beneath them, it’s hand reaching for Daryl’s leg and locking long fingers around his calf. The man jerked behind him, tightening his hold, and when Rick looked up to Jessie again in alarm he saw the bubbles hard returned. As had the the burning pain in his lungs, spreading trendles of fire that screamed for oxygen.

_Wait - what can we do?_ Rick shouted in his head, panic bleeding through everything as the bubbles began to rise faster out of nowhere. _Why do you only talk to me?_ He didn’t know what he was doing! They hadn’t learned how to stop the thing in the house!

Jessie’s sad smile was now directed at him, the fondness returning in touches to her expression. “You’ll know what to do,” she assured him, and reached out toward him. Rick didn’t know when she had closed the distance between them, but suddenly her hand was on his cheek as solid and cold as marble, and the shock had Rick inhaling a sharp breath of freezing water. It felt like ice.

“You always take care of those around you, no matter where they are from, or what they’re supposed to be.” The fondness and longing were lost on him as he saw Jessie tug at clothes Rick didn’t even know she was wearing, a nervous gesture and the first sign of apprehension in the young woman that he had witnessed. She was wearing an old dress with an apron that looked like it belonged in a museum. “Your mom, your grandmother. I’ve never… known a man to be as kind as you are to-” She didn’t finish, but Rick knew what she was going to say. She had to have been from a time and a place, from a life where being a woman did not serve her any favors no matter who she encountered.

_How did you die?_

“Horribly,” she told him, bruises blooming across her pale face like ink blots on a page. “Please, make sure you don’t do the same.”

The knowing fear struck sharp enough to be felt past his burning lungs. _The spirit?_

“Don’t let it out,” Jessie urged. “If it’s free to roam the world, you’ll never find it again. Don’t banish it.”

_But it can’t stay! It’ll tear the house down!_ Rick’s thoughts turned to shouts of hysterics, flames of panic fed by pain and the way the bubbles surrounding them began to grow hot as if boiling the water.

“You’ll know what to do. You always do.”

_No! I don’t!_

But the wall of bubbles and roiling water encased them, the pain intensifying until Rick was blinded with it. He wanted to scream, but couldn’t even find the strength to do that. Couldn’t continue to shout at Jessie as both he and Daryl were shoved with a great force like a tidal wave back into the world. It was like being caught in a hurricane, that burned and scalded and moved them so violently that Rick didn’t know he was back in the tub until he felt and heard the porcelain shatter beneath his hands. With a rush of burning hot water Rick spilled with half the tub’s contents onto the bathroom floor back at the plantation house, shakily trying to raise onto his hands and coughing up water that was brown and murky.

Distantly, with water still clogging his ears, he could hear Daryl coughing too. Out of his peripheral Rick was aware of the man hanging over the side of the tub as he choked on residual water and saying something that might have been his name - but Rick couldn’t answer him. The hunter scrambled out of the tub and was next to him faster than Rick could blink, beating on his back as Rick heaved up brown water, accompanied with sticks and leaves, the two shivering from the cold left over from the bottom of the lake. But the water on the ground burned hot, made steam rise from their skin in contrast as well as the floor, and it took many agonizing minutes for Rick to breathe without tears in his eyes and lake water coming up from his lungs.

“Yer al’righ’, jus’ breathe,” Daryl kept telling him in low tones that sounded too rough from hacking up lungfuls of water, but he was rubbing Rick’s back and when the deputy had succeeded in breathing without sputtering he pulled Rick closer to him. Pressed a relieved kiss to his hairline, resting his cheek there after and listened to Rick’s deep breaths that were still lightly panicked and heaving. But his weight settled heavily across Rick’s shoulders and against his side helped him slow his racing heart, calm himself and begin to think beyond the blinding instinct to inhale and exhale with vigor. They were alive, they made it. “Ya did good.”

Rick couldn’t help but think that he almost didn’t. They almost left without learning anything - and worse, they had almost not made it back at all.

“Did y’see it?” he asked, surprised at the shredded and raspy sound that came out of his mouth. The urge to cough and hack up whatever was blocking his throat tickled the back of palate in urgency, but he swallowed it back and tried to look at Daryl. Rick had been on his hands and knees the entire time as he’d spit out leaves and brown water, but now that he could breathe he tried to shaikly lean back to sit on the floor. Using Daryl’s shoulders and torso to help keep himself upright, he didn’t trust the world to not spin out of control once he was vertical.

“Heard it’all, too,” Daryl told him, but Rick’s still rattled senses and thoughts just kept going like a runaway train. Everything too fresh in his mind.

“It was a lake,” Rick said, his voice like sandpaper. “She was thrown in a lake. But she used to live here. Where is there a lake?” His breathing had calmed considerably, but trying to speak had made it ragged once more, and caused his head to spin a bit but there was no stopping the words that spilled out of his mouth. “I still don’t know what she wants us to do,” he continued more quietly, almost whispering as he pondered everything that happened. “We can’t just get rid of it, it’ll go somewhere else an-”

“I know th’ lake.”

“What?” Daryl’s voice had interrupted his thoughts quietly and it took Rick a moment to understand what he had said, to look at him in question and only be matched with a guarded expression. But Daryl’s stare was resigned, as if he should’ve known this would happen.

“It’s ‘n Mayfield,” Daryl said, and the words were like a slap to the face. Rick was suddenly very aware and was staring at the man next to him with a laser focus. Of course, the one place that had to go was the place Daryl had been disappearing to every night. He was right. They both should’ve known better. That was just their luck it seemed. “I kno’ tha’ lake, and th’ folks tha’ live there.”

The ones that talk to the dead.

“Course ya do,” Rick muttered, now feeling just as resigned as Daryl looked.

The let the silence stretch, both knowing what needed to happen but not wanting to voice it. Daryl ended up making the decision for them. “We’ll go talk wit’ ‘em tomo’rrow.”

“Thank God,” Rick moaned in relief, turning more into Daryl’s body and leaning heavily on him. Wrapping an arm around his broad shoulders to anchor the support. He did not want to even more from that floor. “I could sleep for a damn week.” He had no idea what time it was, but Rick could hazard a guess that it wasn’t even supper time still.

“Y’really wanna sleep aft’r that?” Daryl almost blanched, his face scrunched up in disbelief as he cast a sideways glance at the Sheriff’s deputy, but had also shifted to accommodate his weight. Holding himself up on one arm that rested behind Rick’s back to also keep him from toppling over.

“...No,” Rick agreed reluctantly, “but it’s been a long ass day, and I’m ready for it t’be over.” It was hard to believe that just that morning they had been sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee with so much hidden between them. Rick had spilled his secret about the ghost in his room, then Daryl had told him a much _bigger_ secret that shattered them both to the core. They had screamed at each other, fought more times than Rick could count, kissed and made up in the best of ways, and had almost died in his Great-Aunt Amy’s bathtub. Spoken to a ghost. Found another lead in a long line of leads, but were still no closer to getting rid of the thing haunting his Grandmother’s bedroom. Rick was ready to just lay somewhere and forget about the world for a few hours, and although sleep seemed like a twisted mirror of the death they had almost met that afternoon - it also sounded really nice.

But that meant dropping everything for a little while, including whatever secrets Daryl had been holding back. He had planned to tell Rick that evening, he was sure of it - and Rick had been planning on listening - but after everything stacked up he just couldn’t bring himself to hold any more of the weight. He was letting Daryl off the hook for the night, until they could get some rest, and Daryl realized it a lot faster than Rick even did. He held onto Rick tighter, lapsing into silent thought that was so loud Rick could almost hear the counter-argument before Daryl had even voiced it. But Daryl seemed to lose his voice, not able to say a word in the quiet stillness around them.

“You can tell me about Mayfield ‘n the morning,” he assured the redneck quietly, careful to not break whatever was hanging so precariously in the air between them, “just don’t go anywhere.”

“Never.”

There was a small hint of a smile in his voice, as if leaving Rick in the middle of the night was the most ridiculous notion in the world - and his easy, unhesitating answer made Rick smile a little as well. They still had six years to catch up on. He had no doubt that as soon as Daryl had wrapped his head around how he was going to tell his story, he would tell Rick _everything_.

Even the things he wasn’t ready to hear.


End file.
